The Bloody Git and the Pirating Wankers
by Lapulta J.R.R. Cahill
Summary: In which Thomas learns four-lettered words, exactly how to infuriate a fairy, and that all nations are equal. (But some nations are more equal than others.) :: language warning
1. Chapter 1

_Prompt:_ A fic of any length about Thomas Cahill.  
_Warning:_ A good bit of cursing from the Briton Brothers.

-=-(*)-=-

September 15,  
In the Year of Our Lord, 1499

She was a fairy. The boy tightened his furious scowl and kicked at a particularly audacious stick in his path. Luke's voice - curse his older brother because he always, always, _always _took everything for himself with those greedy, snake-like eyes, even thoughts - still echoed in his head about five notes higher than it normally would've sounded. _Don't touch her, Thomas. Don't look at her because she'll obviously be cursed forever from your clumsiness, Thomas. She's _fragile_, Thomas. Go out and play with something less _breakable_, Thomas. Go and do _anything_, Thomas._ If Jane wasn't a fairy, why did everyone bother protecting her, or at least acting like she was some kind of porcelain doll? She wasn't a doll in the least. It had been almost two years since she was born and she still pooped her diapers like fresh ones weren't going to be in short supply. "Go do something, Thomas." The boy mimicked Luke in an unbecoming falsetto before kicking an innocent rock. He was going to do _something_ for sure.

Thomas Cahill stopped for a moment, glancing over his shoulder at the quaint pillar of smoke slipping through trees behind him. It wasn't particularly interesting, but her could use it as a marker to know where he was on the island. At the moment, he was thirty of his own paces from a patch of unnamable, but very edible berries only he knew about, fifty paces to the shore on his left, and some two hundred paces more till he reached the Chair.

The Chair was a ledge about five feet out that stretched along the side of the cliff separating the two halves of Cahill Island. Fifty feet up and another fifty feet down, it was overgrown with lichen and tiny yellow flowers - at least it had been the last time he'd checked - because nobody ever went there. Nobody even knew about the ledge except Katherine, who thought he was stupid for naming it for something stupid like a stupid Chair (her precise words) and ought to not be an explorer if he was going to name all the things he discovered something dumb like a _chair _(a downsized opinion.) She'd then proceeded to tell his father (not about The Chair, but in words of '_Thomas is so liiitttle and so weeeak and paatheticc that he's just going to diiie if you let him go past that thing on his oowwn_'.) so that Gideon forbade Thomas to ever do anything rash concerning The Chair.

But like _that_ was going to happen. When had _he_ ever been _rash_?

Thomas brushed the thought aside. But it _did_ look like a chair; if for a very, very skinny giant with incredibly long legs when you turned it on its side and thought very, very hard about someone enormous sitting there.

Thomas squinted his brown eyes and his hands clenched tightly into the tree beside him. The smoke needed to fit right between the fork in a tree, but he wasn't quite, quite tall enough to get there- Thomas huffed. It sucked being short ninety percent of the time. The other one percent was when he could crawl into some space the Large People hadn't even known existed. Once, he'd managed to work his way into Luke's laundry basket and cover himself with clothes. (Who knew that a guy that never _did_ anything could stink like kid-vomit?) Four hours and a very peaceful nap later, his mother had found him. Apparently they'd been looking all over the house and only found him because she never abandoned martial duties in the happenstance of a crisis. But really. You didn't look in a laundry basket? _Best hiding place ever_. At any rate, his height was awful on these expeditions. This smoke-adjusting was ridiculous because it only if he got it just right, his left arm would twist back as far as if could go and would be pointing north. If he twisted his right arm comfortable back- oh, what the hell. It wasn't like he didn't know where he was going anyway. Snorting, because he was just too good an explorer for such mundane matters as checking location, he started towards The Chair again.

After a few minutes of brisk walking, Thomas stopped again to look over the short cliff of Cahill Island at the churning water below. A particularly rambunctious wave kicked up its heels on the rocks, tossing spray seven feet in the air and wafting a delicious smell of excitement tinted with salt towards him. He breathed it in for a second, letting the taste seep into his lungs before it got to be too much and he sneezed. The never-ending sea was beautiful, however. Thomas could never understand just _why_ there had to be a larger island in the way of the ocean. Okay, it wasn't just an island, but it was still something blocking his ocean view. Out here on the west side, there was nothing but water. Thomas loved watching the ocean change moods too. For example, it was wary today. In the salt air, there was a lingering taste of malice to come; none of the usual seabirds were out squawking their business and when the waves crashed, they crashed softly, as if saving their strength. It was not unconquerable, yet the sea was never to be underestimated. With a quick last glance at the steel grey sky, he turned and worked his way along the cliff edge towards the northern edge of the island.

As he drew closer to Hang-Man Cliff (No, the name was _not_ stupid because no man had ever hung there, nor ever would) a thread of winter wind picked up, curling itself about him in the shadows of the leering stone. A hedge of trees blocked land-passage at this point, so Thomas brushed aside a few ferns and held onto an oak limb for safety as he swung around them perilously close to the edge of the sea. He peeked down at the lashing water and the periodically exposed rocks once he was steady, but they looked venomous and he hurried past.

After a good quarter-mile of more forest, the island leveled out into a gentle plain. Then Hang-Man Cliff jutted itself up into the landscape without a shrub or slope, as if the Creator wanted a barrier to the other side of the island and had no second-thoughts. It spanned the whole island and held a stance beside the sea in all its magnificent, deadly glory. If he decided not to go to the other side of the island, he could turn right and go east, parallel to the cliff. It would be a half-mile to the nearest habitation; Lord Vesper's manor, which wasn't hospitable. If he looked back, there would be the faintest trail of smoke above the tree line from home. But he didn't look, since there was the task at hand to be conquered: beyond the Chair was something… new. Thomas glanced at the ledge he was going to try to cross: wild grass from the small meadow had crept up along the path, filling the few available spaces with clumps that could be helpful or fatal. Thomas perked his head, stopping in the middle of the meadow just to let the wind sweep over him and let the idea marinate in his mind. A new land. Everyone knew it was there, but nobody had ever been there. The cliff effectively blocked all land passage - except for The Chair, which only he knew of—and the cliffs on the other side, along with dangerous rocks, prevented any sane captain from docking a ship there. He would be the first person there; maybe the first since the beginning of the world, because he hadn't even heard stories of Ancestor Madeleine being farther than Hang-Man Cliff.*

A rush of giddiness ran through him and Thomas stepped fearlessly forward, brushing back a hair strand Old Man Winter seemed determined to blow in front of his face. Pausing for a second to give the water on one side and the towering cliff on the other a courteous glance, Thomas pressed on. However, after a short ways, he realized the grass reached up to his waist and pushing through it was a bit harder than it looked. And the other side looked so—Thomas looked back after half a second. Home was way over there and the cliff was starting to curve to the other side of the island so that little smoke-trail of home wasn't even visible and oh crap he was going to _fall into the sea_ and _diiiee_.

Thomas belted for the other side – not back, because it would be _terrifying_ to face the sea as he made a U-turn – until the clumps of grass started determining where he ran and a stone slipped off the edge and fell into the sea and he couldn't hear the splash. He choked and fell flat on his face, letting the wind wash over him and his terror. Was- was it really that far down that he couldn't hear a splash? It couldn't possibly be. Thomas bit his lip and inched forward on his stomach to peer over the edge. A wave - perhaps the trillionth in a perpetual series of them with another million-trillion coming after – crashed up and a bit of relief crept into his heart. Of course he wouldn't hear a simple splash through all that. A rather sickly smile spread over his face. Here he was, lying around with a new land to explore. What was he thinking?

Pressing on one knee, Thomas climbed to his feet and huddled against the cliff wall. To his relief, it didn't seem to be moving towards the sea. Once, Gideon had told him of a story of a fellow in this same predicament who'd thought he was safe until a mechanized overhang pushed him over a ridge and he'd been forced to use handholds of grass, growing on the edge of the cliff, to save himself from certain death. Thomas wasn't positive about the authenticity of the story, but it was a pretty good bet if the cliff started pushing him towards the water, he wasn't going to be able to hold himself up with grass. All the grass growing on the cliff was by his feet. Nothing grew on the cliff face.

Thomas sniffed slightly and rubbed his tunic sleeve over his face. It felt a bit better when guarded from the wind, so he let his watery eyes warm up again, holding a sleeve over his nose and half his vision. There wasn't a lull in the wind, but he crept forward, keeping his face towards the ground and measuring the varying distance between cliff and sea. The grass clumps were pretty easy to avoid once you got the hang of them. He skirted a tussock on the upper cliff side, picking his way around them until there were too many to dodge. And now he thought of it, the sound of the waves had faded, hadn't they?

Thomas pursed his lips and looked up, pulling his sleeve away from his face. The cliff face to his right was definitely shorter; he could almost see the sea over the lip. There were tuffs of waving weed on top of it, and it sloped gently downwards to meet in a grassy meadow. The sea was some fifteen feet away on his left and on the ledge there was a tree line, a bit like the side of the island he'd just left. The forest slopped upward around the meadow to the edge of Hang-Man Cliff and protected the island from the brunt of the northern winds. This southern end was a valley; no, a bowl. Thomas pursed his lips in happy thought. A valowl. He was the first to see the valowl of Northern Cahill Island; a thing others hadn't known existed before he took command and showed them. And yet they fussed over Jane, who could do nothing but slobber and wet her diapers.

He tossed his head, flicking strands of hair to the wind. After another moment, Thomas picked up a good-sized pebble and tossed it once in his hand. It fell at a decent speed, heavy enough for his purpose. Pulling back his arm, he let the stone fly. It disappeared overhead and left the afternoon peaceful until two birds started up from their rest in the middle of the meadow and flew for the trees. They were just like the fowl on the other side of the island. Thomas shrugged inwardly and wondered why he'd thought they'd be any different.

Glancing around the valowl one more time, he started for the middle of the meadow. As he walked into it, the wind's strength lessened, allowing him to get a better glance around. There were a few scattered, bent and warped trees in the meadow, although more were behind him, towards the sloping top of Hang-Man Cliff, and in front. There were some rocks and a few rabbits holes as well; nothing much. A fresh surge of wind flatted the grass around him and Thomas shuddered slightly to shake off the chill. Maybe the ancestors had been right to build the house south, in the shadow of the cliff. It was far too windy here.

He stomped forward again, breaking into a run up the valowl's opposite slope. Wind whipped the branches of the trees in front, absolutely _determined_ to ensnare him but Thomas stumbled inside the forest, far enough inside that the only thing the wind could do was howl its loss over the upper branches. 'Cause he was just that awesome. Ha.

Giving a self-satisfied snort, he continued heading uphill. It would be a bit nice to get as far north as he ever might get on this blasted island; he'd probably be billions of years old before he could leave on his own to go to the mainland and go north there - not that he knew anyone who lived to be a billion, but it was the thought of the thing. On second thought, he just wanted to get to the rim, and since this was an island - duh - any direction he followed would technically lead him to the edge. It was more fun trying to go north though. Thomas glanced at a tree's pasty-green bark and turned slightly to the left. Having moss definitely helped.

Despite all his musing, It was funny how quiet it was on the island. There were a few rustles, probably from rabbits – there had been a notable population on the south side, but not too many now with a slingshot and him protecting Olivia's garden – or birds, but no bird calls. Thomas stopped and cocked his head. There really ought to be birds. Usually they'd be swirling overhead, even in bad weather. But nope, nothing but the wind. He waited a few more seconds to whistle a quick assuring call. It brought most of the birds at home flocking; here, there was silence. What on earth could've made- Thomas blinked at the ground.

Footprints. Big ones.

Holding a hand out to steady himself on the nearest stump, he slid his boot against the larger, damp footprint. It was twice as big as his at least, maybe bigger than Gideon's, though that didn't exactly count because Gideon had small feet. Thomas pulled his foot away and examined the print. The boots definitely hadn't been made on the island or the close regions of the mainland. They had little squiggly ridges that dug into the dirt and kicked a bit up at the toe, plus, there was a break at the arch of the foot and another statement of squiggly ridges at the heel. Farmers didn't wear boots like that. Their boots were flat all the way down the sole. So were his. Thomas glanced behind him – twisting his neck instead of just turning around. Sure enough, his footprints were in the mud, soles flat with the shape hugging the size of his foot. So if these boots couldn't possibly belong to anyone on the island and nobody came onto the inhabited side unchecked, who on earth could possibly slip by?

Thomas scrunched up his face with heavy concentration. The only possible way someone might've gotten onto the south side without being seen would be to approach it from open water from the west. ... but that was dangerous; too many rocks. And besides, Father had always said the cliffs around the island were unobtainable, even from the inhabited south side. Someone tried to climb down them once; the man had slipped on the wet stones and plummeted fifty feet into the rocks below. Nobody had ever tried _that_ again. Obviously they must've had another way-

"_Sod off_, _lubber_." There was an enormous crash somewhere to his right, leaving Thomas frozen in shock. The shrubs behind him weren't thick enough to hide anything and it was wide enough to be a forest causeway to the sides- There was a gruff snarl and a different, deeper voice broke out in rough Gaelic; something that sounded like 'the two-faced son of a slapper cow.'

"If ye jus' carried yer bloody side of t'e t'ing, I woul'n't 'ave to – _fuck_-" That voice was English. There was no denying the glottled 't's and the rough, mixed vowels.* Thomas flinched as another crash sounded and the deeper voice cursed. "-'old it up! The bloody thing slips!"

A low grunt. And this voice was Irish; low, comfortable, and while different, still reasonably familiar.* Thomas couldn't identify the region though; he leaned closer. "And ye said i'd be so _easy_."

The first voice scoffed, a low, grating sound that sounded like he was shoveling gravel in a pleasant mood - possibly dragging a shovel over stone in a bad one. "I's not my fault 'e lathered it wi' pig grease- walk straig't dammit."

"I '_m_ walkin' straig't. Don' look at me- _Get yer bloody 'ingers off my side of the fecking chest afore I break 'em fer you_."

There was another crash – apparently every five steps they took, one tripped over the other's foot – and two men burst out of a large collection of ferns lugging a chest between them that did indeed glisten with pig's fat. The smaller man stared at Thomas a very, very long moment and dropped his side of the chest. The taller man raised an eyebrow and moved his foot out of the way before the chest landed with a heavy thud that specified it would've broken his foot had it stayed there. Both men had the same kind of overcoat suit on, although the shorter wore a deep, blood red that reached his thighs and the other had an even longer rich green; both were trimmed with gold, although neither man was very neat about the lavish clothes from the wrinkles in them and unfastened buttons. Their black boots were formed differently, just as Thomas had suspected: knee-length with an oddly shaped heel. And then for a second, Thomas looked back and forth at the two just because they looked so similar. Their hair was the same mussed mess and they had remarkably thick eyebrows although the shorter's hair was a golden blond and his elder – he had to be older; he just _looked _like Luke did when he was pissed off – was red. Thomas took a second look. Those thick eyebrows, similar, but too different in texture to compare were drawing down with an expression _very_ similar to anger… and Thomas was just- _standing there_-

A (manly) scream lodged in Thomas' throat, thankfully coming out in mangled yelps. He spun around the way he'd come and dove for cover in the nearest shrub while something exploded behind him.

"YA TOLD ME TH'IS ISLAND WAS _UNIN'ABITED_ YA FUCKN' WANKER! T'IS IS T'E LAST TIME-" Something grabbed Thomas' collar, making him choke as he was yanked off his feet. "-I TRUST YE TA SPORT SCOT'LAND!"

Thomas lashed out behind him, but his feet didn't reach and the kicks fell short. "Let go of me! I can't- breathe- Let go of me, or- or I'll scream!"

The man with the blond hair snorted, lifting him higher so they were at the same eye level. "W'ere 're yer bloody parents? Don't they 'ave a blasted thing to do o'er than sit around and watch you mangle any form of manners you might 'ave?"

Thomas shot him his best glare, clenching his hands into fists. "I said, _let me go!_"

"Put him down." Thank God for small mercies, Thomas glared harder at the first man, curling his lip up so some teeth showed. Out of the corner of his eye, the second man snarled and his green eyes blazed. "Put him _down_."

"'m not fuckin' _putting 'im down_. Who the 'ell is he? I want to know; an' why the bloody 'ell is he on _yer feckin' _'uninhabit'd'island?"

"I'm C-Cahill, and this is-"

The second man suddenly stepped up and leaned in close to the first, fist locked and powerful in front of the blond man's nose. "_Put him down_ or London is_ screwed_."

London? What was London? It must be important since Thomas found himself flat on his back in a pile of decaying leaves a few seconds later. He scrambled back on his hands, gasped to get air back in him, then flipped over and plowed into the forest. The meadow wasn't too far away and with his short legs, he could probably make better time downhill than the taller fellows-

A hand snagged his shoulder and Thomas yelped as he flew backwards. It was the man in the green coat now. He seemed a bit calmer than his friend, but Thomas stepped back, clenching his fists just in case. His feet were on the ground now and they totally wouldn't be able to climb trees; just because... because... because adults couldn't. Logic totally made sense. The man turned him around and held up a hand. "Hold on, will ya?" The man glanced over his shoulder at his glowering counterpart. "M' brother is a bit of 'n arse most of t'e time, so don't pay 'im any mind. Look… Tom, ye took us a bit by surprise-"

He'd never announced his name. Thomas blinked in surprise, realizing after a second the man's brother – it made sense the two men were brothers – was staring at the man the same way, granted, a bit fiercer. "I never told you-"

"'s a bit of… a 'abit," the man with the green coat interrupted quickly. "We thoug't nobody came to this part of the island."

Like that was an excuse. Maybe... Thomas gritted his teeth. Maybe they were invaders from Norway! That would explain the other man's weird accent! And yes, this Green Man spoke Gaelic, but his accent was still a little foreign and therefore worthy of suspicioun. Only... Gideon said that Norwegians spoke Norwegian, and Thomas didn't know Norwegian, so they must not be Norwegian. That was so stupid anyway. You were Norwegian and spoke Norwegian. Lazy people; they couldn't come up with anything better to name a language than Norwegian? Anyway, they didn't come from anywhere near the island, so they couldn't be trusted. Thomas curled up his lip. "He- he tried to- to bloody _choke_ me?! I came here for an adventure! Some adventure this is turning out to be!"

He could've sworn Green Coat cracked a smile but his face returned to an amused mask soon after. "Af'er we leave, I give ye permiss'n to attack 'im all you like. However, at t'e moment, we're a bit busy."

"With the chest?"

The man glanced behind him. His brother had crossed his arms and was scowling harder than ever at the duo. Those fuzzy eyebrows were drawn in tight to one flat angry line across his face. "With t'e chest. 's a bit of 'n import'nt thing, ye see. Allistor was a bit of a bas-" The man stopped the word before it was all the way out. "-was _trying our patience_ 'n we t'ought it'd be a bonny turn to give him the slip once."

"Stop tellin' 'im your life's story," the blond man snapped, stepping closer and glaring down at Thomas while address him. Thomas stuck out his tongue. "-_ya rat's arsed_-" The blond man leaned in closer. "Go back to your fuckin' 'ome and forget ye saw us, 'n if a pissed giant comes blasting down 'n yer fucking front door, tell 'im ta go eat 'is shit an' get lost!"

"Shut it, Arthur." Green-Coat Man snapped.

And 'Arthur,' apparently, snorted. "Aye, keep talkin', because we've got all t'e time in the world."

Green Coat scowled. "And ye're chivvying away wit' that stupid chest and tripping us up with those boots you 'ad to 'ave-"

"They're _comfortable_, ass!"

"Tell that ta Allistor when 'e finds out that thing's been stol'n-"

Thomas paused for a moment to watch the two men argue. They seemed quite comfortable with each other and Arthur's brother seemed to have forgotten to keep a hand on his shoulder - for the moment at any rate. Biting his lip, Thomas turned around quietly on his heel and lifted his foot towards freedom.

"An' where are ye goin', bloody git?" Arthur snapped and before Thomas could make a break for it, a hand closed on his tunic's collar. One of his new vocabulary words ran through his head: _fuuuu-_ "Genius Irelan' here might let ya off, but ye 're goin' 'ome ta spit everyt'ing out to Scotland when 'e gets 'ere-"

"Arthur, le' him go." Seamus put a tad too much weight on 'Arthur', but his eyes narrowed again. "_Let 'im go_."

"Fine…" Thomas flinched as Arthur's hand tightened on his collar, shortening his breath. It hurt a tad too much to focus on what they were saying at the moment, even though the man in green seemed concerned for his present safety. Arthur huffed. "... _Seamus_." The hand dropped and Thomas scurried away to watch the duo from a safer distance.

They were going to argue again, he realized when he got his breath back. Thomas pursed his lips at the development. Arthur looked like he wasn't going to let him run away any time soon for whatever reason – 'cause the man didn't want him there at all – and Seamus wasn't taking anything about Thomas seriously. The boy felt a peeved frown cross his face. They could at least _try_ and speed it up to suit him. He grabbed a fistful of Seamus' coat and tugged at it. "What do you want?"

The man look surprised; surprised, but kind. Kinder than Arthur at any rate; that man looked positively murderous. "A Ca'ill's honor ye won't let off about this to anyone."

Thomas brushed a strand of hair out of his eyes. "You only had to ask that."

"I know." Seamus pursed his lips for a moment before raising a casual eyebrow. "Where would you 'ide something 'ere-"

"USE YER OWN BLOODY HIDING PLACE, FUCKER!" Arthur snarled. He marched back to the chest, eyes burning. "Get o'er 'ere 'n carry yer 'alf of this fucking weight 'n don't tell me ta stuff it for the blooming git over there because if 'e 'asn't heard it before, 'e will sometime in 'is bloody life. Now get over 'ere or I'll carry it myself!"

Seamus' lip curled up in a wry sneer as he turned back to Thomas. "You do that."

The forest fell into the kind of silence that implied deep and undying loathing. Arthur stood next to the chest, shaking like the wind was blowing him to pieces with his face turning a livid shade. Even his eyes swelled up and looked as if they were going to pop out of his head. He was going to explode at some point. Thomas reached up and found Seamus' hand, gripping it tightly. He wasn't _frightened_ at all. It just… would be nice to have someone between him and the volcano. Seamus glanced down at him, curious, or perhaps just a bit confused. "How old are you now?"

"Five 'n two months 'n thirteen days."

"Where are yer parents? I don't see t'em sending ya-"

Thomas pulled his hand away, sniffing at the injustice. "I came alone."

There was a long moment. "_'ow?_"

"Over The Chair."

"The Chair-" Seamus ran a hand through his messy red hair, shooting disappointed glances at him. "You mean you managed to cross that ledge by _yourself_."

"I'm not a _child_-"

Seamus opened his mouth at the same time as Arthur's livid face and tightly locked lips burst open, covering them with a wave of sound that was probably heard on the south side of the island as well. "FUCK YA IR'LAND! FUCK YOUR FR'ENDS, 'N FUCK YOUR LEPRECHAUNS, FUCK YOUR-" Arthur lunged forward, trying a swing at Seamus who stepped back just far enough the punch missed him. "-FU'ING SHIT AND ALL YOUR BLOODY PIXIES AND T'EIR FUC'ING COURT AND THEIR FUCKING ACQUAIN'ANCES AN' YER FUCKING SHAMROCKS THAT DON'T FUCKING HOLD NOWT 'N YER PEAR SHAPED LIFE THAT BLOODY FUCKING SHITS UP 'VERY FUCKING IDEA-"

Thomas pulled away from Seamus' hands that were attempting to clamp down on his ears. Murderous Arthur caught the movement and Thomas took a step back as those furious emerald eyes whirled on him.

"AND _YOU_!" There was a two second pause that lasted for hours with Arthur's wild eyebrows just about the only thing Thomas could make out on the face. "DAFT, BLOODY FUCKING SON OF A PLASTERED- _CAT_, WHY DON'T YOU CALL SOME LEPRECHAUNS AND NAFF OFF TO WHERE YOU CAME FROM BECAUSE ALL I NEEDED TO DO WAS BURY A STUPID CHEST ON A FUCKING ISLAND THAT WAS _SUPPOSED TO BE_ DESERTED AN' YE_ RUIN. FUCKING. EVERYTHING_."

And then Arthur flew into a tree.

Which was rather funny, Thomas supposed, considering he'd basically been threatening to pummel him and Seamus to (bloody, fucking?) pieces. Seamus stepped forward, fists clenched and eyes just as dangerous-looking as his brother's. "Why don't you repeat that?"

Arthur ran a tongue over his lips for a long moment and then spit into a nearby bush. A leaf dipped down, smeared with red. "Repeat what?"

"About the Cahills."

Thomas felt the emerald eyes lower on him for a long, long moment. "… tell 'im to go 'ome."

"I came by myself. Can go home myself if I want to."

Arthur straightened himself and brushed a bit of bark off his red suit. It wasn't fancy, Thomas suddenly realized. The red had been dulled to dark burgundy and the plaited gold was tarnished in the overlapping creases; he wondered why he hadn't noticed that before. Arthur glanced around the clearing until his eyes settled back on Thomas. The words hung, unsaid. "… then go."

"Don't want to."

"Now 'ow bloody likely, is that?" Arthur shot a disgusted glance at Seamus.

His brother rolled his eyes and puffed out a breath. "That 'sn't the point, Arthur."

"If you're so concerned about 'is safety, you don't see too concerned 'bout Allistor!"

"Of course I'm bloody _concerned_. You're wasting the whole day."

"Not wasting as much time as you with your frilly obsessions over nincompoops and straight fairy trails drawn on the ground!*"

"Wha' about magic?"* Seamus snapped, "Fucked over yer shit fer five hundred years, didn't I?"

"Well, ex-bloody-cuse me fer ownin' yer arse, vier for independ'nce. An' ye certainly seemed 'appy enough with Sir Patrick from yer damn raids.*"

Seamus' lip curled up. "'n ya certainly lapped up m' druids."

"Tha' doesn' count!"

Up flew the fists although Arthur expected it and it took a minute or so of roughhousing on the ground to get him pinned back against the tree. They glared at each other for a while, trying to remember the reason why they'd started fighting. Seamus took a quiet breath. "I want Robirt from your crew."

"Kiss my arse, lubber."

"Or you're carrying that bloody chest around all by yourself _and_ dealing with Thomas; because 'e isn't going home any time soon."

The man's eyes narrowed, then he shoved his brother's arm away for a few seconds to glance behind him. "Where's the bloody git?"

Seamus whirled around, causing Arthur to lose his balance on the tree and stumble forward. The chest was sitting where it'd been dropped five minutes before, but Thomas had vanished. Not a branch waved or a startled bird flew to point where he'd gone. Seamus blinked, a look of surprise that didn't seem at all to fit there settling on his face. "But- but where'd 'e go?"

Arthur marched away and grabbed his end of the chest, waiting for his brother. "Good riddance. Now get yer arse over 'ere before I tell Robirt to whack you on the 'ead."

-=-(*)-=-

Thomas pursed his lips.

If he ran home – the extremely appealing option – Mum would be serving tea; maybe with crumpets. There might even be cookies or soda bread or something wonderful as a treat since he came back in time for it. But.… He lowered his gaze, a single eye peeking out from behind a shrub. Arthur and Seamus crashed their way through the woods, destroying a decent number of plant life and scaring birds up every few yards. He'd learned half a dozen new words, at least – quite the accomplishment. And after few minutes, Arthur didn't seem that bad. He had temper issues – not even Luke's was that bad – but it seemed to be mostly lighthearted banter; he wouldn't murder his brother at any rate. Besides, it couldn't hurt to follow them; they would go bury a treasure chest that was Allistor's and then go back whatever way they'd came. It couldn't be too difficult to track them either because they were creating a gleeful racket and leaving an obvious trail if you knew how to follow it.

… Which made Thomas wonder if Allistor knew how to track things. He waited for a second as the trees closed in on Arthur and Seamus for a second before darting across the clearing and crouching down in a new patch of shrubbery.

It took a while. Apparently the box was heavy and pig's grease made it difficult to transport. They made their way through the forested areas of the valowl without too much trouble until Thomas found himself on the edge of the eastern cliff, huddled between two ancient elm trees while the wind screamed around the island, tossing the men's coat ends like chaff in the wind. There was no talking now as they struggled up to the very edge of the cliff and looked down over.

Were they going to _climb down_?

Seamus dropped his side of the chest with a sharp bang, making Arthur jump and bark something out. The man shrugged it off and then headed into the outskirts of the woods; a round-about way on the lip of the volowl. Maybe he was going back for something. Thomas slunk down against the tree and watched Arthur carefully. The man sighed, a bit resignedly, it seemed, and crossed his arms. He stared out at the sea, watching it writhe and thrash like a wild thing. The sky was growing darker and more menacing every few minutes; the thought that the sea had been restraining its power didn't fit now. Thomas stared at the incoming waves as they rolled in; fierce, powerful, and vicious. He wasn't close enough to the edge to see the crash, but he could feel it. They beat against the island without compunction and with the howling wind, beads of spray showered onto the grass. Arthur was going to get soaked if he stood there for much longer.

Thomas waited for the man to move, but he didn't. It didn't look like he wanted to move. There was something sturdy about his posture, like he knew exactly where he was in the world and what was happening at that incident, and the storm – any weather, foul or worse – wasn't going to deter his plans. It was almost curious the way the wind tossed his golden hair and he didn't care. It didn't make his temper any worse, but it certainly didn't make it any better. _Prepared_; maybe that was the word. Thomas cocked his head slightly, allowing it to stick out more between the two trees.

"I thought you went home."

Thomas screamed (masculinely) and spun around. And of course Seamus was there. He should've known. "I- I don't need to go home. Not until supper!"

Seamus scrubbed his face, green eyes glittering in a tired manner. "You won't tell a soul."

"Why not?"

He pursed his lips. "It's personal. And if you tell Allistor, nothing's going pleasant for you, or yer family."

"Why?"

"Because he's a pain in the ar-" Seamus cut off the word and looked a little cross, trying to decide what to say.

"Because he's an arse?"

Seamus scrubbed his face again. "You were following us the whole time, weren't you?"

"Yes."

The man sighed. "Yes, because he's an arse, and if you so repeat that word around anyone but Arthur and I, I'll toss you off the halyard an' dig you out of the ocean to stuff you in the brig until yer bones rot." The green eyes became sharp and they narrowed down on him. "Got it?"

"Hm mh." Thomas glanced at the coat. It wasn't quite as worn as Arthur's, but the gold outline only glistened dimly and the green cloth had faded. He had a good view of the black boots and there appeared to be little white specks on them… like… dried salt. "Are you a sailor?"

The bushy eyebrows rose. "No, I 'ave a magic carpet. _'course_ we're bloody sailors." Seamus snorted, turning around and marching towards his brother so the wind caught the words a little. "How do you think we got 'ere?"

"But nobody can climb the-"

Hearing them, Arthur spun around with those glittering green eyes and Thomas stopped dead. It was awful how alike the two brothers looked, and were and weren't. "Back again, are ye?"

"I'm not going home yet."

Arthur looked away and spit into the grass so Thomas glanced at Seamus who was investigating a pile of rocks. The wind tousled his fiery red hair until he finally bent down and kicked a few pebbles away. Grabbing a large stone, he pulled it upwards and the earth itself opened into a trapdoor, like magic.

Thomas scurried against the wind to Seamus' side and they peered down the space together. It wasn't magic; a trapdoor had been placed in the earth with the stone chained to it somehow with dirt placed over it. After a time, the grasses had grown over it, hiding it completely. Seamus glanced past the rock pile towards the sea, looking quite pleased. "Unsurpassable," he murmured, and smiled.

"Quit your blasted gloating," Arthur snapped from beside them. Thomas jumped. "Carry your side. The faster we do this, the faster we can get off this bleeding island." He glanced at Thomas with that ferocious scowl and dug steel and tinder out of his coat pocket. If he hadn't been such a good catch, Thomas would've fallen down the hole when he tossed them. "Be a useful bloody git, will you? T'ere's a torch farther down. Get on with it."

Thomas glanced at the hole. It was (fucking) dark down there, and there might be spiders…. _Awesome_.

He leaped in and barely caught himself from breaking his neck on the unevenly hewn rock stairs. There was Arthur's surly cough from above; Seamus was silent, probably just raising those bushy eyebrows. Flinching a little, Thomas stepped down the almost vertical stairs until the light – or however light it was with the base of the storm building above – began to fade. And then, of course, they had to put the chest where he could break his (bloody) toe. It was locked, but from what his fingers could tell him, there was an awful amount of rust on it. He snapped it easily with the flint stone and then listened to the chest's moans echo into eerie silence as he lifted the lid. Thomas dug into the stuff. There was a pile of smooth pebbles, some seriously tiny chains, and – oh yes, torches. He sat down on the step, held the base between his knees and struck steel and flint together.

-=-(*)-=-

*** If I remember correctly, this isn't canon. Ancestor Madeleine 'stood on the ridge/rim/thing and claimed the island' somewhere when Olivia is mourning Gideon after his death in Vespers Rising. However, headcanon is that none of the Cahills actually take the time to go there - and Thomas wouldn't pay too much attention to legends that don't involve Gold. So he Doesn't Know That.**

*** Arthur should speak a general old form of Estuary English in this fic - or that's what I'm aiming for anyway. The dialect is taken from London and south England and is often compared to Cockney, though there are borderline differences which are debated. The most common inflections are a broad 'a' in words such as bath, grass, or laugh and a glottled 't'. However, 'h'-dropping is generally not used in Estuary English, but I have England and Ireland use it here.**

*** Ireland should speak in an Irish accent, but I'm pretty sure I botched that one up. Pretend for me, will you?**

*** Fairy paths are routes taken by fairies, often to places of significance. You aren't supposed to walk on fairy trails after dark and you shouldn't build houses or 'things' on or near fairy trails or Bad Things can Happen like illness, loss of possessions or loved ones, general bad luck, or even death. Ireland is where the primary legends reside, but many wives' tales and advice seekers reside all over the isles.**

*** St. Patrick was born in Roman Britain and captured by Irish pirates when he was sixteen. They held him captive in Ireland for six years, wereupon he ran away and took a ship back to Britain. He was supposedly in his early twenties when he got home, studied Christianity for a while longer, then returned to Ireland as a missionary where his conversions were moderately/greatly accepted. The funny thing is that he's stuck around for all this time; he must've made quite the impression on the Irish for them to mark his death and the world to celebrate it as St. Paddy's day.**

**Many welcomes to my once-upon-a-oneshot story! Any notes I have will be asterisked and posted as above. Please, don't feel obligated to read them at the same time as the story. They will usually be historical clarifying notes or comments on canon materials in general and not worth making your reading time awkward.**

**One thing though, I wish there were more clearly defined battles between the Irish and English: yes, there were multiple skirmishes, but nothing definitively tangible that got caught in the history books - minus the fact England pretty much owned Ireland's butt on and off a good portion of the time. They always fought back, but heh, the English did a pretty good job.**


	2. Chapter 2

Within moments, the torch flared into a crackling flame and (blimey) the pebbles were pearls and the entire chest was stuffed with slender gold chains, like the ones meant for necklaces. Thomas blinked.

"Not quite t'e best place fer torches, is it?" Thomas yelped. Seamus' low chuckle echoed in the room like the chest's creaks. "Wasn't enough room below for the extras."

"Stop sneaking up like that!"

"If ya paid more attention, i' wouldn't 'appen." Arthur snorted. Thomas turned away, lightly noticing that both brothers' orbs reflected off the torchlight like a cat's. If they knew it, they didn't care and the trio continued down into the bowels of the earth.

For looking like the trapdoor had been well locked up, time had withered the passage away. Thomas glanced at the slimy stone walls that glistened from the light of the torch and the dripping spider webs leering above them. Every once in a while he'd have to brush through one and it only took a few to start delightful images playing in his head of vengeful spiders crawling all over him. Falling droplets sounded off in the staircase along with systematic pounding of the muffled waves. It really was only their footsteps though. Footsteps and the occasional droplet.

Pursing his lips, Thomas cocked his head at the strange shape looming before them. The staircase was beginning to shift directions, curling a bit to the left. Fom a strange contraption over their heads hung an ever-grinning circular shape with loathsome teeth and straggling bits of hair with an arrow pointing straight down into the brain from which it obviously hung. The body had apparently been cut off and shoved to the side long ago as sharpened stakes barred their way and a skull-less skeleton was skewered limply into the wall. Odd bits of flesh dangled brown and tasteless with an air of gruesome around them.

Arthur's careless laugh split the atmosphere. "Petty bast'rd. Shouldn't 'ave been down 'ere anyway. Step away, laddie!"

Thomas leaned against the wall – opposite of the skeleton, where he could get a good view of all the broken bones – and watched as Arthur snatched the trunk's second handle from his brother (Apparently he didn't need Seamus to carry the bloody thing.) and tossed it straight through the poles. A billow of dust rose up and Arthur doubled between laughing and coughing as the chest tumbled down the stairs, clashing and clattering with enough sound to raise the skeleton from the dead. Seamus snorted – coughing then as well, because the dust was making a fat cloud in front of them – and headed forward. Arthur took Thomas' torch and followed without a backward glance.

Thomas watched them for a moment, then took a long last look at the headless skeleton now drooping mournfully against the stone wall in the fading light. The head above swung a little as a muffled crash shook the stairway and a bellow of Anglo-Saxon cursing in Arthur's voice billowed up from the depths. Thomas mentally stored any good ones away for further use as well as the rougher snarl from Seamus to 'chivvy off.' He stepped forward to follow them and their heavy grunts from picking up the chest again, but it seemed improper with the skeleton waiting there. He reached for a hat to doff it, but didn't find one. Of course not. Rolling his eyes, Thomas gave a quick nod to the leering head and scurried down the stairs.

There was sand at the bottom of the staircase; slightly damp sand. Thomas stopped after reaching the last stair so he could look around at the great expanse of cavern everywhere. To his right, there was a rough stone wall with a crack of light peeking out over the top with an accompaniment of waves crashing against it. Torches hung on the far walls halfway to the ceiling – lit by Arthur's snatched torch, apparently - flickering dimply and offering little substance to the tangible darkness all around. Farther down to his left, was evidence of the chest's tumbles from the staircase with the same odd footprints that had identified them as alien to the region in the first place. Thomas stepped off the last stair, ignoring the small puff of dust and weightless sand that rose from his footsteps.

At the left end of the cavern – it was drier there, Thomas noted; if the sea did manage to flow in from the upper crack when the tide was high, it didn't get very far – Seamus was fiddling with something on his waistband while Arthur had his arms crossed over his chest with a sharp emerald gaze peeled for – Thomas couldn't help thinking – himself. He slipped out of the shadows and there was instantly a snort from Arthur. "Bloody git."

Seamus turned from the wall to shoot a look at his brother with an added sneer. "Just 'cause I don't like All'stor doesn' mean I like ye."

"Bully to tha'," Arthur sniffed and glanced at his brother's hand which held a gold key – maybe mixed gold, Thomas realized, but not any of that plated stuff. The thing was enormous for a gold key too; this wasn't any decoration – and they watched as Seamus inserted it into a hole in a rock. Turning it slowly with a few heady breaths, there was a muffled thump and the wall began to shake.

Thomas felt a tap on his shoulder and glanced up at Seamus. "Mum's the word, is'n it?"

"'Course."

"Good lad."

Arthur leaned forward with anticipation as a crack split the wall down the middle, showering them with dust and grimy flakes of stone. A long, silent second passed, and then the wall – walls, now – started to tear away from each other, ripping stone as if it was nothing but cloth. Arthur stumbled and Seamus grabbed Thomas' arm to keep him from dropping into the dirt, but he himself didn't seem to feel anything. He bobbed about in the melee, smiling a bit at the antics of his brother with that caring, but positively devious smile. Thomas grabbed his stomach in case it decided to empty itself right then and there.

Then just as suddenly, it became still. The walls had retracted into themselves, leaving an enormous cloud of dust Arthur was cursing off and waving away from his face and a large – larger – darker, emptier space than the original cavern had been. Seamus let go of Thomas' shoulder and stepped over to the nearest sconce. Plucking up the torch he grabbed his end of the chest and waited patiently – or impatiently, as Thomas noted his foot tapping on the quiet sand – for Arthur to finish mumbling about the bloody sand that got in peoples' eyes and blinded them. They struggled slowly into the damp cavern; Thomas followed close behind, glancing around for what the torch would reveal when Seamus suddenly lit a stream of candelabrums and the entire room glinted gold.

Thomas swallowed. If they were sailors… then this- this- How...? He stumbled and caught himself on a golden bust of some fellow who the artist hadn't bothered to draw where he was looking. Thomas jerked away as if he would gain Midas' touch just from looking at it. There was cloth though, besides gold, and ivory with expensive lengths of sanded oak that looked like masts in the middle of the room – probably for extras if a ship's happened to break as well as to help support the stone ceiling. Gold coins lay scattered around at their feet and in silver goblets; too many to distinguish, although Thomas was pretty sure there was some Roman change with Arabic dinars. Arthur's wild laugh filled the cavern as he turned to Seamus. "Ye've been busy."

Seamus managed to ignore him somehow, setting his side of the chest down – Arthur narrowly avoided squashed toes – and sparing a glance around the room at the piles of gold and treasure stacked high against the walls. "'n attractive 'obby."

"My offer stands."

Thomas glanced at them though another argument where they throttled each other didn't seem in process this time, for some strange reason; Arthur seemed vaguely curious and Seamus, indifferent as he seemed to be mentally searching for some area in the room. "Ye an' yer offer c'n go naff off ta t'e nearest pub."

Arthur pursed his lips and looked around at an expensive-looking, plush seat. "Suppose ya feel Allistor is'nt goin' to show 'is arse anytime soon."

"Fu' off or 'll beat yer-" Seamus' unusually calm voice – for telling his own brother to fuck off as if it were the most normal thing in the world – broke. He shot a look over his shoulder at Thomas and had a sudden coughing fit. "-or you'll… regre' it."

Arthur ignored the pointed look. "As if yer entire drunk crew could manage to catch up with the Britannica."

Thomas rolled his eyes and tuned out of the conversation to examine the chest - Allistor's chest - more closely. It was thick leather, undoubtedly a few layers dense with heavy iron bolts pounded in straight lines over the curved ridge top and around the edges, dividing it into halves. Metal reinforcements had been pounded along the ridges so that the corners were sharp and dangerous to those who didn't use the leather handles on the sides. For all the protection though, the chest was showing its age. The lock on the front was thick and intimidating, but the metal itself was probably rusted though – and if it wasn't, the hinges on the back had rusted away and the only thing connecting them to the chest were pitifully rusted bolts in their own right.

Thomas stepped closer; neither Seamus nor Arthur noticed him, of course, since they were too busy throwing casual, dirty insults at one another. He ran his finger over the chest, forcing a grin down as it dove up and down from the little rust-ridges and erosion caused by salt-air. It had to be salt; or at least the chest had lived quite a bit of its life somewhere near the sea. What was so important inside the chest that Seamus and Arthur had gone to such risks to steal it away from Allistor? (Even though they seemed to have more problems with each other than with him.) Thomas poked the leather. It didn't do anything, so he looked up to Seamus who had strayed about half the cavern's length away near a tottering pile of silver and gold bowls. He stalked over to his side and yanked on his breeches. "Can we op'n it?"

Seamus blinked and looked down; Arthur scowled, those prominent caterpillars drawing into a unibrow. "What?"

"C'n we _open_ it? Do you even _know_ what's inside?"

"And I suppose ya do," Arthur shot back sarcastically, leaning back with one foot against an out-of-place, marble, Corinthian column that reached only halfway to the roof.

"No."

Arthur curled up his lip and gave him a little flaunt of the hat: the plumbed feather dipped. "Wall," he drawled. "Looks like yer curiosity got the bett'r of ya."

Thomas gritted his teeth, pushing himself to his full height. "And _yer're_ the fat bastard who can lift the fucking thing but doesn't want to unless your plastered arse gets screwed and those shitty lines of tinsel on yer face you so blant'ntly describe as fucking _eyebrows_ make one bloody straight line. You pull some shit and tell _me_ what 's 'nside."

Arthur's jaw dropped.

… And then Thomas found himself hanging by his hair and Seamus fucking pissed (amused) face was five inches away. He screwed up his face in a scowl worthy of Arthur: "LET GO OF ME!" Thomas sucked in a breath to make it louder. "LET GO OF ME! LET GO OF ME! LET GO OF-"

Arthur doubled up – another pleasing prospect, Thomas noted – and coupled his own screams of pain in the cavern. "BELT 'IM UP, IDIOT!"

Thomas yelped as Seamus jerked up and down on his hair, which was going to be yanked out by the roots soon. Poor hair. "I though' I told ye not ta repea'-"

"Bugger off!" Thomas paused for a moment, then stuck out his tongue.

Seamus grabbed his foot and turned him upside down.

"OW! FINE! I GET IT! LET GO OF ME, YOU MORON!"

And Seamus complied. On Thomas' head. The boy sat up, sullenly rubbing his scalp and glaring up at both his persecutors. Arthur glared back. Seamus shot him an empathetic look without much sympathy. "T'e bloody git's right," Arthur finally snapped, breaking the silence. "I'll op'n it." He stalked over to the chest, grabbed the nearest item – a golden candlestick – and brought it down hard on the lock. It flew apart with a rusty snap and two pieces dropped into the sand.

Thomas glanced up at Seamus as Arthur struggled with the heavy lid. Seamus made no move to help him, he noted. "'n I keep it?"

The man shrugged. "Sure. 's broken. Ye can't use it fer anything."

"I-"

"Aha!" Arthur crowed out his triumph, green eyes sparkling in an unusually pleased manner as the chest lid creaked its way open. "Now, let's see Allie's prized possessions, shall we?" Thomas scampered over to the chest, scooping up the two lock pieces and depositing them in his pockets as he ran, and Seamus raised a nonchalant eyebrow while he strode over.

The open chest, Thomas noted first, reeked of vinegar and salt. It had spent far too many days at sea and far too many in an old corner, recovering from its far travels. The second thing he realized, was that the chest held _clothing_. No axes; no epic weapons he could wave at Arthur. Just clothing. Seamus and Arthur seemed a tad on the startled side two since they both leaned closer in, heavy eyebrows pulling together. The clothing did look vaguely familiar from what Gideon wore, Thomas noted, and he leaned closer to look at the strange printing on the fabric. They looked like white fluff balls with white stick-legs and little white heads with barely any tail to think of. If he didn't know better, they could be-

"Sheep?" Thomas glanced up at Seamus for confirmation. Both of them must've realized it at the same minute he did since tiny smiles were twitching wildly at the corners of their mouths. The smiles slowly grew into grins until Arthur and Seamus both shoved back with twin roars of laughter that echoed all the way to the ceiling and reverberated down to shake the towers of gold and silver. It was infectious; Thomas suddenly found himself laughing too.

Sheep underwear.

Allistor wore sheep underwear with their little white legs and little furry white bodies on an evergreen green background.

He wore _sheep underwear_.

After five minutes, Seamus had got himself reasonably under control. Arthur was in the process of pulling himself back together with a furious stern face for ten seconds, then dissolving right back to where he was. Thomas let the edges and bolts of the chest dig harshly into his back while he waited, grinning.

It seemed much more pleasant than it really should be though, he figured, with a laughing glance at the chest. This… secret, with the two brothers made home seemed very far away with Luke on another continent. The rules he'd endured that morning had dissolved away, leaving his own dictatorship over the land and the sky and the sea. Of course, he had Arthur and Seamus, but they didn't really count since they were the ones that had stolen the chest in the first place. They made the secret, and Thomas felt the hint of joy that he was part of their group now. He had a sudden vision of him in their heeled boots with a dashing green coat with gold fringe, leaning over a ship's rail to conquer the sea.

There was still Olivia though. Thomas' grin fell into a slight pout. She would be dreadfully worried about him. She'd be dreadfully worried about him _now_ because he wasn't home in time for dinner. Speaking of which, it probably was past dinner and he was feeling a little on the hungry side. No, his stomach was not growling. However, for the sake of senoritas everywhere (a favorite phrase of Maria's when the soup overboiled) this was more ordained; this had _purpose_. Thomas could feel Allistor's future fury at his missing sheep underwear (Ha! Sheep underwear!) and it was something worth battling against; something worth the look Arthur had in his eyes while recovering from another stitch of laughter, his fierce eyes settling into seriousness. It was worth missing dinner.

Well, maybe once. Thomas felt himself flinch slightly. Olivia's dinners were awfully good. Even though a sailor could get something wherever he wanted, it might be pretty hard to beat roast beef and pudding. He'd have to ask Seamus about that later. As for now, Thomas picked himself up, watching both brothers carefully for their gravening emotions.

Seamus finally straightened up fully, the still-crimped corners of his eyes the only sign he'd been roaring with laughter moments earlier. His speech was heavy with Irish brogue now, though it hadn't been so evident earlier. "Pard'n, lad, bu' 'f ye knew 'im, ye'd find 't just as funny."

"… Even wit' such an uncouth thing as laughter," Arthur puffed out, brushing sand off the sleeve of his coat. He looked rather dignified, Thomas had to admit. Without a ferocious scowl and those caterpillar eyebrows drawn in, he appeared peaceable and solemn. Arthur had a sort of air about him that demanded respect, and if not respect, then at least admiration in an aloof, indifferent way.

Seamus didn't appear that way at all. He had the leisurely pace that kept walking as the world turned; he never fell behind, but he never tried to get ahead either. He was just there, but he made sure you knew he was there. And he didn't care that half his tunic was coming untucked from his pants either. Thomas knew enough about people to know he liked them like that. He was too easy-going to care for his own pants.

Puffing out a quick breath, Seamus glanced down at the open chest and then at Thomas. "Since the lock's broken, we could leave it 'ere. 'S's not like Allistor'll find the place anyway."

Arthur whirled on the chest, eyes flashing. "Fuck," he snapped. "Ye 'ave a lock 'n all t'is junk?"

The leisurely eyebrow was back. Seamus took a step back to lean against a marble column, lips pursed. "T'is 'junk' has beaten your bloody arse 'alf a dozen times. Tread careful."

Arthur held up his two middle fingers, palms away from Seamus. That could mean a number of things, Thomas frowned, glancing at Seamus who seemed to be taking it in stride. Maybe it was alright then, and if _that_ was the case, maybe he could pull it on Luke as soon as he got back to the house.

"'ve got a lock," Arthur suddenly snapped. "'s just small. I don't think it'd fit."

"It'd be best to 'ave something on it." Seamus pushed off the column to glance at the chest's latches. They were large, but not so large as to require an enormous custom lock and key. "Try 't."

Arthur dug around in the pocket of the red suit for half a minute, before emerging with a silver lock. Tossing the object to his brother, he waved the key for notice and stuck it back in his pocket. "My idea."

Seamus shrugged with a quick nod of acquiesce and snapped the lock on. It fit. Barely. Thomas kicked at it with his boot and it rattled nice and tight. Allistor would have a hard time getting that one off, especially with Arthur having the key. Thomas snorted a bit at that thought; the man would have to kill him to take the key off _Arthur_.

"Ready?"

Arthur shrugged.

Thomas gave him a curt nod, and Seamus nodded back, another smile hinted in the corner of his eyes. "Fine."

They walked out of the room without another glance at the chest, or a snicker at its contents. Arthur tapped his foot while Seamus inserted the golden key into a different hole on the side of the main chamber. Like before, the ground shook mercilessly as the two walls started to close. Thomas expected it that time though and he stood placidly like Seamus as he stared into the far room. As the walls got closer, the candles that had been lit flickered out by themselves, leaving the gold and silver and marble columns to be taken over by darkness until the walls left only a slim crack and the final light extinguished as they sealed shut. Nobody would've been able to tell mountains of treasure lay within such a cavern. Just the three of them.

Thomas glanced over his shoulder to glance at his two elders. Arthur was already heading for the exit – typical – but Seamus was pocketing the giant golden key in his pocket and the kindly green eyes seemed to nod. Time to go. They strode across the sand – Thomas noted the water was doubly loud as before and the underground shore line had expanded quite a bit so that it almost reached the beginning of the staircase – and started on the mossy staircase.

Seamus was still a half step behind him, but Thomas had to hurry to stay ahead ahead. The passage all flew by though. The soaking dampness of the walls seemed like nothing, even though it was gross. The moss hanging from above and the poor soul who had the stupidity to find his way down into such a treasure cove didn't matter like they had when they were coming down. Thomas dipped his head in quick credit, but they didn't bother him. It was just a pity. The stairs seemed simpler too; the burn in his legs from climbing was there, but he didn't notice it. There was too much excitement and too much anticipation in the air for it to matter. Arthur was there up ahead and Seamus was right behind, and he'd already saved his butt twice, so he wouldn't let anything too bad happen.

Life _was_ an adventure. Hell to dinner.

Thomas felt a fiery grin on his face as they finally broke out into the fierce, salty air. It ripped at his tunic and hair, mussing it up worse than Seamus' right-side-down incident had put it. There was something electric too; the storm had finally come upon the island, beating it with the full force of its apprehension. Seamus could feel it too. His green eyes were alight with a cheerfully fierce blaze as the trees leaned before the wind and the grass flattened. "Where's Arthur?" He suddenly asked.

Blinking, Thomas glanced around and shrugged. "I don't-"

"The _ship_," Seamus spat into the grass. And just like that, his eyes had darkened into a ferocious emerald that made Thomas quite glad he wasn't Arthur. "Fu- _screw_ him!"

Whirling around, Seamus kicked the trapdoor closed and grabbed Thomas' shoulders in a quick motion. "Go 'ome."

"Go- go-?"

"_Home_," Seamus snarled. Starting around, he raced into the woods, fighting the wind for each step.

And Thomas suddenly found himself alone. He didn't have Seamus and he didn't have Arthur, and he sure as heck wasn't going to go home. Where had all the adventure gone? Glancing around at the steep cliffs of the island, Thomas saw the rocks lining the rim. If there were ships, they had to be on the far side of the northern end since they weren't on the corner of the island where he was standing. Both Arthur and Seamus had backtracked through the trees, but his shortcut would work against the wind because he was little and (bullocks), nobody told Thomas Cahill to go home. Honestly.

Gritting his teeth, Thomas struck out, scrabbling quickly through the tall grass from one outcropping to the next. It was relatively simple, thanks to his small size, but the wind always threatened to blow him over and send him careening back to where he'd come – or worse, off one of the cliffs. And of course, there'd be no one to catch his fall. He moved rather fast though and by the time the wind had begun to screech its banshee fury over the island and the waves shook the ground far too much for him to stand, he could see the final outcropping as a dash of red coat burst from the trees and started struggling down the rocks. Green was dashing through the trees.

Scrambling closer, Thomas managed to frog-leap through the grass till he reached the place where Arthur was climbing down; an enormous pile of boulders, seemingly tossed by giants where and when they felt like throwing something. Arthur was a quarter of the way down, but Thomas could see Seamus' problem; there was only one small rowboat and if Arthur got it, he might be stranded on the island until the morning when the sea had calmed and his own ship could send reinforcements. Unless – as he no doubt understood – if Arthur commandeered his ship and prevented his own crew from giving help. Which meant he was stranded forever. Or until the next drop-off day at Lord Vesper's mansion. It didn't matter. Arthur would have ruined everything.

Thomas scowled. He had to get on the boat.

He would break a leg before he managed to overtake Arthur the long way… Thomas glanced around at the dark stone, gritting his teeth. Too long; too dangerous – no matter what Katherine said, he wasn't stupid enough to commit suicide on something. He whirled to his left, the side of the island with open sea and glance down. There was a relatively smooth incline running down, probably because of the crashing water needing place to go, but it would fit his size butt.

Thomas shrugged. Better than Seamus stuck on the island.

He miscalculated, first thing. Thomas screamed at the incline, letting all the words he'd learned in the past few hours come pouring out of his mouth as the slide tipped him downward. It shot him past Arthur – who honestly looked surprised and Thomas couldn't even enjoy it – and sent him flying through the air in time to receive a nice smacking of salt spray and a perfect crash-landing on the sand, face-first. Coughing, Thomas stumbled to his feet and spat out the sand. Over the waves crashing to his knees and into his boots that weren't meant for such treatment, he could hear Arthur's furious screaming. And another voice.

Thomas waded through the water and scrambled wetly into the boat somehow without looking up to check who the other voice belonged to. Snatching up an oar from the only two in the boat, Thomas leveled it out as Arthur climbed the last way down and started through the water, murderous fury in his eyebrows. "Don't come any closer."

Arthur snorted and said something like 'bloody git' that the waves drowned out. Snatching for the oar, he growled for trouble and Thomas gave it to him. On his head. The man limped away, clutching his crown with understandable fury and soothing it with colorfully foul language.

Thomas dismissed his nemesis as momentarily occupied and glanced up for Seamus. He was leaping down the rock at a dangerous rate, but would be on the small shoreline momentarily. Wielding the oar, Thomas snarled at Arthur as he advanced again and the man beat a hasty retreat, satisfying himself with glaring. "'re ya goin' to fuck with i' now you've got it?" Arthur snapped.

Whatever that meant. Thomas glanced at the oar in his hands. "Maybe." He waited as Seamus hopped the last length and scrambled alongside the boat before he dropped the oar.

"You're dead!" Seamus hissed to him under his breath, eyes flashing, but he didn't seem all that mad. Throwing a leg over, he scrambled into the small vessel.

"THA' WAS IT?!" Arthur roared, scrambling closer once the threat to his head was gone. "Fuck'n bloody git! Ye 'it me on the 'ead so he could fuckin' _catch up_?! 'e's got a fuckin' crew of 'is own ta rescue 'im!"

Seamus snorted, eyes leveling on his brother with a slightly disgusted look. "Once ye'd infil'rated t'eir ranks with your shaggers?"

"My crew has two pair." Arthur sniffed lightly, ignoring Seamus' strenuous efforts with the rowboat.

It seemed to take hours to gather a few feet from the shore. Now the excitement was over, Thomas felt his empty stomach squirming around and he suddenly felt a bit far from home. Hadn't he just not-needed home a few seconds ago? Thomas pursed his lips and glanced at the tossing sea for comfort. It only made him feel sicker, unfortunately. When he glanced at furious-Arthur and indifferent-Seamus they didn't bat an eyelash and the place he thought he had in their group had suddenly disappeared. He was just a boy again. A boy an island away from home and being carried farther every second by two sailors (wankers, or at least Seamus was one from Arthur's description).

Scooting as far away as he could get from both of the two brothers, Thomas tucked his knees up to his chest and closed his eyes. The rocking of the boat appeared much gentler then and while he could still feel the brothers' vicious gazes at one another, it wasn't as fierce, and he was no longer the subject of it. Thomas also lost track of time after a while. He could feel himself fading in and out of consciousness; unwilling to go to sleep, but too tired to stay awake either. He wished he had the energy to laugh, but he couldn't, of course. A thick yawn came out instead and he had to hide it in the folds of his cloak so Arthur wouldn't see. Thomas closed his eyes and nodded off again until the boat gave a fierce jolt, throwing him backward.

The first thing he noticed was that the sea was wilder than it had felt with his eyes shut. It seemed determined to shove its way into the little boat, tipping it dangerously to the side in its quest; Seamus and Arthur were standing, staring each other down with cold looks. Either they were ignoring the wild sea, or they didn't care since they had their sea legs and were bobbing up and down without a sign of discomfort. The second thing Thomas noticed was that fog had rolled in. It blanketed the sea in great, snaking curls, bubbling over the waves to coat everything in a silent, damp ooze. And out of it, the hull of a ship stuck up into the air. He could only see the bottom portion with a ladder hanging down, waiting; the fog cut off the top. Sometimes a vague outline of the mast rose through the mist but he couldn't make out anything else.

Finally, Seamus turned his back on the two in the rowboat and grabbed hold of the nearby ladder – though it was probably only because of a mild, silent victory between him and Arthur he did so.

"Hey!" Arthur snapped, leaping forward and making the boat take a dangerous rock to the right. Thomas shrunk down farther, feeling smaller than he ever had in his life. "You aren't leaving him!"

Seamus glanced down from the third rung, thick eyebrow raised with nonchalant coldness. "He shouldn't be here."

"Well I'm sure as fucking 'ell not going to take 'im back to the island. And this is _my_ boat." The green eyes flashed with expressed possessiveness.

There was dead silence except for the slosh of the waves against the side of the boat, and even that seemed dull with the swirling fog wrapped tight around them. Colors were turning damp and cold, forcing Thomas to look harder to identify anything. Biting his lip, he glanced up from the side of the boat at Seamus. The man's gaze appeared fierce for a moment, but it gently softened into something a bit more tender, though it could've been a mere trick of the fog. After another half-moment, he puffed out a breath and offered a large hand downward. "He is one of mine, isn't he?"

Mine? Thomas blinked. He wasn't _anybody's_. Something awkward flickered through his mind like an echo of Seamus' or Arthur's voices saying odd things, but Arthur's boot quickly nudged it out of him. "I 'aven't got all night, bloody git."

Forcing himself to his feet, (which was definitely harder than it should be; Thomas couldn't tell if it was because it felt like his brain was going to shut down on him or if the waves were making it that much harder than it had to be) he stumbled over the boards and reached up for Seamus' hand. It caught his immediately and swung him over the rim of the boat to where he could grab the rope ladder. Thomas could still feel his mind struggling with whatever Seamus had meant, but his hands latched onto the ladder automatically. Seamus let go and started upward. Pursing his lips for a moment, Thomas glanced behind him, unsure if Arthur might be watching them – curious, or even with an level, not-pissed off gaze. He caught the retreating end of the rowboat through the fog; sly, sneaky, quiet. A little hurt settled into Thomas' heart. Did Arthur _really_ hate him that much?

"Tom?"

Seamus was almost to the top. Blinking with surprise, Thomas scrambled to the top of the ladder and clambered over the side of the ship. Seamus was by the mast, waiting with arms crossed. Despite his exhaustion, Thomas managed a healthy dose of enthusiasm to look around the ship.

The deck was spotless from what he could see. There were a few crates in the corner and a half-dozen barrels on the other side of the desk. It looked uninhabited too, like Seamus somehow managed to run the whole ship without a crew. Not a noise sounded from below; not a light shone on deck to signify another life form. Around the upper part of the ship, the fog rendered hidden, but no lantern shone up there anyway.

Thomas scurried across the deck after another minute, following Seamus closely as he opened a door on the far side of the ship near the stack of crates. They slipped inside just as the last glimmers of sunlight dissolved in the fog.*

-=-(*)-=-

It was too quiet.

Thomas felt like a sneak as Seamus strode through the passageways and he trailed him like a tiny shadow. A tiny drunk shadow at that. The determined waves in the rowboat had only tried to slosh into it, but in the ship, they forced the entire hold to roll. Thomas could feel it rock in an uneven rhythm under his feet. Up at the front, down in the back; heel to toe, heel to toe. But then, because the (bloody) waves just liked to be ornery like that, they completely changed the rhythm and rocked forward from back to front. Thomas would catch himself just in time and stumble forward. Sometimes Seamus glanced behind to see if he was still standing, sometimes he didn't.

The hallways were deserted besides, though brightly lit. They were walking down a hallway now, one staircase below the top deck. Thomas glanced down as they passed by the second staircase and headed towards an important looking doorway at the end of the hallway. "Seamus?"

"Hm." The man broke stride for half a second and Thomas pulled up closer beside him.

"Where are we going?"

"Capt'n's cabi'."

Thomas blinked as they reached the door and Seamus turned the handle. It was unlocked, apparently. But it didn't open. Muttering a string of colorful curses under his breath, Seamus braced himself (against the waves or against the ship?) and slammed his hip on the door. It flew open as the ship tilted forward and they tumbled head-over-heels inside the room. Thomas caught the edge of a pole before he dove into Seamus – who crashed into the table in the middle of the floor – and grinned. Ships were tricky things then. More adventure!

Whatever homesickness he had quickly faded as Thomas scrambled to his feet and glanced around the room. It was pleasant enough; definitely larger than most of the rooms on board. In the center of the room where Seamus was picking himself up, a large table stood bolted to the floor; a large, lit lantern fastened in the middle of it. He must not have seen it through the fog when they were outside the ship. Well enough, though. Thomas spun around to see behind him. The long pole he'd grabbed onto was the post of a bed, stretching up to the ceiling where it was bolted securely into the wood. There was a small, empty, table-eque nightstand to the left of the bed and beyond that, opposite of the resting place, was a two tier bookshelf crammed with knicknacks, clothing, unmentionables, food, gold, jewelry (not Seamus' Thomas supposed, since he didn't seem the type to wear pearls) and half a dozen shells of assorted kinds. It looked quite a bit like Thomas' own chest, though he had a chest and not a bookshelf since Olivia had long-since forbidden mice skeletons on her furniture.

Seamus coughed, jerking Thomas' attention back to the other side of the room. The man was digging through a chest of drawers, mumbling to himself at different shirts, which quickly grew boring. There were only a few more chests on the other side of the room though; none of them looked that interesting. Rolling with the motion of the waves – Thomas scowled at the sudden thought he'd actually have to deal with the rocking for much longer than five minutes – he headed over to Seamus.

"A'a," the man jerked out a final tunic and shoved it under Thomas' chin. "It'll fit."

"Fit what?" Thomas stumbled back (not because of the waves, but from surprise, thank you very much). "I've got m' own clothes." And now he was talking in the laced Irish. Thomas suddenly felt a twinge of annoyance at Seamus for not speaking the smooth, proper way Olivia and Gideon did, and raised all their children to follow the same example. It was a reminder that Seamus was still a stranger; still unapproved by authority though Thomas already trusted him more than he trusted Maria, the family servant.

The man looked down with a slightly condescending tone in his gaze, unaware his speech had anything to do with anything. "Yer on a ship now. I can' let ye go bodge t'ings up with the crew. They'd mut'ny 'n string me on the 'alyard."

Thomas glanced up instinctively, trying to hear any sign of the crew. "They're here?" (And his speech was clean.)

"Aye," Seamus raised an eyebrow towards the door with amusement as he snapped out the tunic. "'aving a bender, I'll imagine." He tossed the tunic in the air in Thomas' general direction and started riffling through the drawers again.

It was damp when Thomas caught it and it smelled of salt and age. The moths had been at it too in a few spots in the armpits. Struggling out of his old one, he slid on the new. It reeked even worse once it was on, but it fit reasonably well; slightly large and cold compared to one he'd been wearing for a while. Thomas turned his attention back to Seamus while fidgeting to get used to the different cloth. "Bender?"

"Gettin' drunk." Seamus pulled out a pair of irreparably torn breeches, raised an eyebrow, and tossed them back into the drawer. "'S a past time when she's at anchor."

By which Thomas took 'she' to mean the ship. "Oh."

The light on the table flickered, drawing his attention to the windows that stretched most of the way around the rectangular, with a spooned-out-side cabin. Katherine could've probably named the shape, but Thomas didn't feel like racking his brain. Outside, the fog pressed thick wet fingers against the glass, begging to be let in in a terribly goosebumpy manner. And Katherine probably would've also argued that 'goosebumpy' wasn't a word, but Thomas pushed any of her grumpy thoughts aside. It was the homesickness talking anyway, not Katherine. Katherine would be looking at the brass instrument sticking out of the one chest with sharp edges.

Seamus shook out another pair of breeches and immediately dismissed them for their size; he paid no attention to Thomas as the boy slipped behind him towards the chest. Like Allistor's chest full of sheep underwear, it had a thin dusting of white specks from the sea spray, but unlike his chest, it wasn't locked, inviting all little eyes to see its precious secrets. Tipping up the lip – Thomas held his breath as it squeaked momentarily, but Seamus didn't turn – he glanced down at the large brass instrument with the loopy writing on the side. His mouth formed the words as he sounded it out. Q-U-A-D-R-A-N-T. Katherine would know what it was used for precisely. It caught Thomas' interest though and he found himself frowning down, trying to remember if she'd said anything anytime about a q-u-a-d-r-a-n-t.

"'ello there."

Yelping, Thomas leapt back and the chest lid slammed shut, making an ugly sound against the instrument.

Seamus raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. He seemed purely nonchalant, even now, the ship rolling beneath them with the fog's mystical hands pressing against the glass and held back by the flickering lantern; so utterly above all of them. "Try these on."

Thomas blinked at the trousers and stockings. They were obviously a tad too big, like the tunic, and had the same musty smell and the same worn look. Seamus waved him off behind the table and Thomas obediently went to change. Sleep was starting to muddle his mind. He could feel it gathering behind his eyes so his vision went a little fuzzy when he tried to focus and when he stared at the grasping fog, all he felt was inherent sleepiness and a bit of boredom.

The trousers were also freezing cold, forcing Thomas to rub his hands together as he slipped from behind the table. Seamus nodded curtly after a moment of scanning him. "Alright then. Let's go find m' plastered crew." He sniffed, whirling away to shove a few articles haphazardly into the drawers. "… prob'ly drunk off t'eir arses."

Setting out down the hallway, Thomas noted Seamus keeping his head cocked. It looked rather funny and couldn't be comfortable with the incessant rocking of the ship, but if it helped them find the crew– He broke off the thought with a yawn. It didn't seem that late; perhaps the fog made it look farther in the night than it really was. The sun had only set a few minutes ago and they hadn't spent too long in Seamus' room. No, he had to stay awake, even if it was late. Thomas scrubbed at his eyes and shoved away sleep. Sleep should be impossible; ridiculous. Here he was on a grand adventure with rich sailors and he was imagining sleep.

Thomas raced forward to pull even with Seamus as the hallway widened into a dark room of rope, shot, and cannon. The cannons loomed in the dark, large and threatening in their sleep and without thinking – because his brain was far past that point of consciousness and thought – grabbed upwards for Seamus' hand. They both jumped at the contact and stared at each other, Seamus' green eyes luminesce in the dark. "Are- are those real?" Thomas managed after a second.

The green eyes turned a tad more gentle than surprised, but the larger hand didn't squeeze his own in comfort as Olivia, Gideon, or even Katherine would have. "An' they shoot real balls too." Seamus snorted at something, leaving Thomas to wonder at the little missing act of kindness. Grownups didn't get their hands squeezed, did they? And it made him feel a little stronger that Seamus apparently didn't think he needed that, but the little twinge of homesickness was back, making him long for the warm hearth, clothes that wouldn't smell of musk and sea salt on Olivia's watch, and even Jane. Even stupid, _fairy_ Jane. Thomas flinched – out of either distaste or regret – and quickly dismissed that thought.

Making their way across the large hold, Seamus stopped for a moment, pressing lightly on Thomas' hand to alert him to that without saying anything. His foot searched for a step and then they started down a staircase. It led to a very large, very shut door, and Thomas waited for whatever magic Seamus would pull out of his sleeve to conquer the impossible.

He opened it; it was unlocked, and Thomas scowled at the utter simplicity his tired brain was being subjected to.

They started down another hallway, lit this time, so Thomas could tell it was quite short. There were doors every few paces except for one at the very end, right turn, which seemed entirely separate. There was a crack of light from under it and besides, a dull roar seemed to be growing louder every second. Seamus' strides took five of his suddenly with his odd heels snapping down on the wood with furious precision. (Thomas imagined the wood crying out in pain at every hard knock, which was amusing and rather ironic if he thought enough.) The roar continued to grow, obviously centered behind the single door until they reached a few paces away and it fell into a dead silence.

The light inside the room flickered. Seamus crossed the remaining space in one stride, making Thomas blink in the dim light and flung open the door. "W'A THE BLOODY FUCK ARE YE DOIN' 'ERE!" He roared out, drowning out any other sound that could've been going on. "FUCK!"

"Aye, that's t' right term," a male voice drawled from inside the room.

There seemed to be a great hubbub inside the chamber, as Seamus stood in the doorway, tense with fury. Thomas fidgeted beside him, trying to peek past the door in his way, but Seamus didn't move it. Finally, Thomas couldn't stand it any longer, moved over a step, and stuck his head inside. The room wasn't too large. There was a very messy bed in the far corner, three round tables surrounded by chairs in the middle of the room, and a large counter encompassed the left wall. The later was covered with many bottles of ale and beer of varying levels: empty, half-empty, and full, while there was a much abused chest of drawers standing by it. The drawers didn't appear to hold anything except bottles and some gold coin. Where was all this gold coming from anyway?

And then he noticed the people. They were a rather scraggly lot; most of their clothes were large or of varying sizes and their trousers seemed a tad frayed around the knee. There was a woman too. She had a mess of short red curls tied back with a ribbon, with green eyes, eerily similar to Seamus'. Leaning against the counter, it looked like she'd been watching the previous proceedings with some amount of amusement. A man in the corner was struggling to fasten his pants along with a woman who was shoving her feet in knee-high boots with the same odd heel. Her face was shaped slightly different from all the sailors around her, suggesting that she wasn't from around Ireland. Some of the sailors had black eye patches too, especially one gruff man with a stubbled chin whose eyes narrowed on him. Thomas jerked behind Seamus to watch in safety.

"Ge' back on yer own ship," Seamus finally snapped. Thomas imagined his green eyes flashing.

"Aaw." He flinched at the sickly-sweet voice; the foreign woman, he realized. She'd fastened her boots and stood up. She had a pair of blue eyes and cascading blond hair that settled just below her shoulders. "And is Irewand going to boss wittle Engwand awound again, hm?"

There were a few guffaws from the men as they waited for the battle to play out. Thomas could feel Seamus trembling in front of him, probably wishing he could leap on her and pummel her like he wished he could with Katherine when she tried to be annoying. "Get off my ship."

"Too tempting when you interrupt a lovely fuck?" The woman sauntered closer, azturpealean* eyes echoing a malicious glint. "Or maybe you just… can't stand us English…." She paused, so close to Seamus Thomas could see the soft white sheen of salt on her boots. "… Irish bastard."

Thomas knew he was Irish; Gideon had said that often enough, reminding his children they were part of the mainland, and even though he didn't quite know what being a bastard _was_, it was simple enough to deduce from the woman's tone it wasn't a very nice thing to be. So his mouth moved without thinking, another awry action where no thought was taking place. "I take offense t'en!"

It seemed like everyone in the room jumped, Seamus included. He whirled on Thomas, eyes angry. The woman against the counter leaned forward, undoubtedly intrigued by this turn of events. The woman in front of them looked down, blue eyes wide. "'Allo there. Didn' see you."

A whisper started on the opposite end of the room and finally ended in the front with a loud laugh. "Ye were a bit busy 'ese last few years, eh, Seamus?"

Seamus ignored the poke and decided to focus on the woman in front of him again. He curled up his lip, eyes flashing dangerously. "Get _off, my, ship_."

"Fine." She slipped past him into the hall, flipping her curls over one shoulder in a not-provocative-at-all manner. Bending down, she patted Thomas on the head. He was too tired to hit her. "Take care t'ere. Don't let 'em take the piss on ya too much." And she hummed an unfamiliar tune as she turned and started toward the deck.

The whole room seemed to be waiting for the door to slam, and when it finally did, Seamus whirled around back towards his crew. "Bae!"

"Yess'r." The man who had been pulling his tunic on stepped forward, looking wary.

"I'm going to kill you."

Thomas blinked.

"… later."

Oh. Then that was about right. Thomas hung back as Seamus stepped forward into the room, the level of tension settling down to a mild tone as the men started moving around and taking up their ales and beers. The woman against the counter took an empty mug and held it under the tap till it was halfway full before taking a swig. She didn't seem that concerned about any of the happenings, but she watched Seamus as he talked to the burly man with the eye patch and a few others. And then she looked at him.

Thomas blinked, too startled to turn away. Pushing aside her pint, the woman headed across the room toward him. He couldn't run, that would be too stupid, but Seamus wasn't there and he didn't know any of these people – especially her, though she seemed nice enough. Thomas waited as she knelt down beside him with a soft smile. "'m sorry ye 'ad to see that. Ever'one told Bae not to invite Lizzy over, but 'e never listens." She brushed a red curl that slipped out of place behind her ear. "What are ye doing here?"

How was he supposed to answer that? Thomas pursed his lips and glanced at Seamus as if he could answer the question for him, but he was busy talking, of course. Rubbing fiercely at the cold wool of his pants, he tried to think of something truthful, but not that he'd pretty much gotten stuck in the boat since he'd wanted Seamus to get back to his crew. "I- I- I couldn't get home."

"Ahh," the woman nodded with a low breath. Not sympathetic, but understanding in a very matter-of-fact manner.

Thomas shrugged, happy at least he wasn't being doted on like some lost pet. "Why are you here?"

"Ahh," there was another soft breath. She plopped down on the floor and crossed her legs so she was sitting against the wall. Her gaze followed Seamus though, like the time before, not possessive, just watching. "I've known 'im ever since I was little."

"Seamus?"

"'Mm." She patted the floor besides her but didn't look when he sat down.

"Who are you?"

"Me?" The green eyes met his with relative amusement someone would ask about her. "'m Leisel. I'd tell you my last name if I remembered it."

Thomas nodded once and let his tongue trace the consonants. "_Leisel._ I like it," he said after a minute. "'S a pretty name."

"Do you like me more because of it?" Leisel's green eyes twinkled, giving away the fact she was just asking to tease him. What had the English woman said? Taking the piss?

"No."

Leisel laughed and gently tousled his hair, making Thomas flinch. It was too tender a gesture in the room with the men gathered and laughing at poor puns after too much ale, but he couldn't really debate it and Leisel might be hurt, so he stayed put instead of moving to a new spot. Seamus had sat on one of the chairs and seemed to be taking his sweet time yakking with the crew. "So," she finally murmured, turning back to Thomas. "How'd a tyke like you get tangled up in all this? Really."

Thomas could feel his brain putter around weakly for excuses, but there really were none, especially those that fit with 'I couldn't get home' since he had been very able to get home and life and adventure just didn't turn out that way. It wasn't exactly _his_ fault Arthur suddenly decided to leave Seamus stranded. So he started describing Jane and the island; that was probably the best way to start, along with Luke's incessant, overly-nosy big-brotherly-ness. Running away too, though he hadn't really _run away_, it was just being fed up with stupid family and leaving; there wasn't anywhere to run away _to_ on this bloody island anyway.

Leisel listened with interest through all the rest of it, and with partly raised eyebrows at Thomas' curiously well done reprise of the swearing. When he was finally done, he found himself curled halfway on her lap, heavy eyelids watching Seamus without noting what he was doing. It took a few minutes before his eyes closed and Thomas felt her gently slide him off onto the floor. She'd tucked something under his head and he burrowed into it, listening to her footsteps as she walked away.

"_Wha' are ye going to do?_"

There was an apparent lull in the mens' conversation as Leisel walked up. The question must've been directed at Seamus since his low voice answered, quieter than he'd said anything as long as Thomas had known him. "_I don't know._"

"_Are we keepin' him?_"

A fierce '_no_' in a hushed whisper.

"_Then are ye going to take 'im ba_-"

"_Now?_" Seamus' voice gained a sharp edge. "_As the English stick their willies where t'ey're not wanted._"

There seemed to be a pointed silence through the whole group that was directed towards the man named Bae. Thomas let a little smile flicker on his lips, but it was too much work to keep it up and he resumed listening.

"_But later?_"

"_When Allistor's sure to catch up at some point._" He huffed softly and rough fingernails drummed against the table. More silence.

Someone else finally stirred; he seemed heavier than Seamus while far too uncouth to be Leisel. "_'ere's a Spanish s'ip sailing nor'. Word says 't runs fr'm 'merica._"

Another man laughed low. Thomas could feel the reek of breath from the way he spoke, even if he was relatively safe from the fumes. "_'d make a good cab'n boy. Caug't 'is sea legs quick._"

_No._ Thomas felt his eyes snap open, wide awake. No, they wouldn't do that. They wouldn't… _kidnap_ him. In the dim light, all the men looked eerie, but they were focused on their captain, even Leisel who stood behind him, watching. It took half a second for a fist to ram on the table making everyone jump.

"_Care to repeat that, McKellin?_" Seamus hissed.

Silence.

Thomas squeezed his eyes shut and curled back in the soft thing though it wasn't as comfortable as before. Seamus wouldn't let anything happen to him. He should've known.

"_You've been keeping secrets t'is w'ole voy'ge,_" the first man finally growled. "_W'at brought us 'ere with t'e bloom'n English anywa'?_"

"_Personal matters,_" Seamus instantly snarled back.

"_Per'nal matters?!_" a third crew member hissed. "_We came to get rich, not settle your bodged_ personal matters."

"_T'row 'im in the sea with a boat and let 'im get to shore 'imself,_" the second sailor suggested. Thomas could feel the conference's moment of recoiling from his breath, though he flinched from something else. "_'f he lives, 'e's got a lotta bottle._"

"_And if he drowns,_" Thomas barely caught Leisel's soft murmur.

"'_e's off our 'ands. 'S not our fault._"

"'allo there, lad."

Thomas' eyes shot wide open again. Instead of one of the men leaning above him though, there was a little man about waist high. He was dressed in a fancy little red vest with gold buttons though his belly was so fat Thomas had to wonder why they hadn't burst the seams yet. His breeches were a dirty tan and he had a long beard that went to the top of his stomach.* The little man leaned closer, large fat nose almost touching Thomas face and he could see the man's emerald green eyes. "Eh, ye there, lad?"

"I- I'm 'ere." Thomas pushed himself up on his elbow, but the little man instantly waved him down. He was bouncy and anxious with a certain air of mischief that made Thomas want to smile.

"Shhh-sh-sh-sh." The man peered over his shoulder. "Ye mustn't 'ell Seamus. 't'll seem odd."

"Odd? What's- wat's so odd about it?"

The little man let out a long breath of 'eehhhh's. "Ye don understand, do ya, laddie?" Twirling around thrice so fast the gold buttons turned into a blur, he disappeared. Thomas blinked, staring at the spot on the floor where the man had been.

And suddenly everything vanished.

**-=-(*)-=-**

*** I picture all the brothers' ships as brigantines, though perhaps lightly altered for their separate countries. Brigantines are two masted sailing vessels with square-rigged sails on the foremast and fore-and-aft sails on the mainmast. A picture: **** pirates hold. buccaneersoft pirate_ships. h tml**** . (Without the spaces) Because I still know next-to-nothing about naval matters after writing this. *sigh* This site also show flags, history, and other such things that are a great help to have while writing; and also a source page, to check facts.**

*** Azturpealean probably doesn't make sense to anyone who didn't read the nineth book. xP The protagonist of the 39 Clues combined azule, turquoise, and teal to describe the Caribbean water. British pirates = available puns lolz~**

*** Traditionally, leprechauns were depicted with red clothing, cocked shoes with buckles, stocking and breeches of varying colors, and a hat. It's a rather far cry from the modern 'green' leprechaun of today, but I liked him a bit more, so this is the leprechaun Thomas meets.**

**Those two paragraphs up there where Ireland and England were bartering was supposed to be a future point of conflict or the start of a sequel, but I've totally forgotten what it was supposed to be about and the subject never comes up again. I can't really erase it without murdering a bunch of lines I don't want to murder, so bear with me and be like Thomas and have no idea whatsoever they're talking about~ Maybe England wants to offer Ireland all his extra beer /for a price/.**

**You also never find out what happens to that lock. :shrug:**


	3. Chapter 3

The first thing Thomas noted was that his eyes were closed and his head hurt something awful. It hadn't even hurt so bad when one of Katherine's concoctions had exploded in his face and a frying pan, Luke's momentary weapon of choice (intended for Katherine) had landed on his crown immediately after. That hadn't been a pleasant evening, but neither was this one, now he thought of it. His future death was being discussed, which was quite bloody important, thank you very much, and he wasn't able to listen now.

Shaking his head, Thomas pushed himself off the floor and opened his eyes. Which led to the second thing: the entire room – if this was a room, because he couldn't tell and frankly, was too tired to think rationally and act like Katherine – was black. There didn't seem to be a floor, which meant he was standing on air, but the glass-black-floor definitely _felt_ like one. The black itself was perfectly tangible, though unseeable and in absolute dark, Thomas waved his hand in front of his nose and couldn't see it. Putting it down, he puffed out a breath. He'd landed quite hard and Thomas was beginning to feel a bit sore from all the exercise and being in places he shouldn't. Taking a step forward, he almost expected the floor to fall out from under him. It didn't, thankfully, and he took another step in the same direction.

Everything looked the same in the dark – if there was anything to see. The room – if it was a room – could've been hundreds of feet high (infinite?) or five and Thomas couldn't know the difference. After another moment of walking in a strange direction, though, there was a quick muttering and then a soft poof beside him. "Who's there?" Thomas jerked out his hands to feel around him.

Wry laughter filled the room. "Ehh, I would've though ye'd know it better, laddie."

"Who- who are you?" Thomas flinched at the stutter in his voice; the tired way his tongue _wouldn't move_. "Why am I here?"

"I couldn't 'a answered yer questions t'ere." There was a soft rattling and the gentle poof of a flame.

Thomas yelped as light erupted in front of him and pushed the dark away to reveal the little man standing in front of him, hands cupped in front of the grey beard. In the palm of both was a bright flame, levitating just enough it wouldn't burn him. For once in his life, Thomas found himself speechless. Of course, being exhausted helped too.

"Magic." The emerald eyes glittered and the leprechaun whirled about, leading the way through the dark with the flame in front of them. Thomas followed, helpless. After a few seconds, he managed to turn around and examine the floor. It was still unseeable; the black had become a misty black around them.

"Are-" Thomas took a longer stride to be right behind the leprechaun. "Are you a dream? Am I dreaming?"

"Nay," the little man laughed his screechy laugh. "T'e pixies got cur'ous."*

"Pixies? But Father always said pixies aren't real." Thomas forced himself to some point of rational thought. "So you can't be a pixie, since you're real, and if pixies aren't real, then you can't be leading me anywhere good, can you?"

Thomas stopped.

The leprechaun kept on walking, holding the flame like Thomas hadn't said anything.

After a few moments, the dark started to close in on him as the leprechaun got farther away; it was like watching the one tangible thing on earth slowly slipping out of his grasp and Thomas shivered at the sudden sensation of aloneness. He burst into a sprint and caught up with the leprechaun in few strides. "Wh-where are we going then? Where are you taking me?"

No reply again. When he looked around though, the dark seemed to be that much less, and it wasn't only the flame that was beating it back; something small and _blue_ was floating closer. Thomas kept his head turned, eyes wide as he could keep them to see what it was sooner; unsure if he ought to alert the little man or just run back the way they'd come. Finally, the blue glow flittered through the black and formed the shape of a little fairy, wings as large as she was, but no bigger than the palm of his hand. She fluttered closer when he stopped dead and hovered at the level of his nose. Their eyes met for a long second before she flew closer… and closer…. And then without a single beat of her wings, she disappeared with a small poof of dust that trickled down on his sailor's tunic before being absorbed into the fabric.

Had she been _real_?

Thomas glanced instantly toward the leprechaun for assurance, but the little man was already quite a few yards away and as oblivious as ever. However, there seemed to be a few glowing lights around his head, red and yellow, with a stubborn dash of green flying in a circle. Thomas felt a twinge of shyness run through him as he got closer; the lights looked similar to the blue one. Perhaps there were more of them? Pixies? And if the fae* had called him here because they were curious, wouldn't they do exactly like the blue one had done, then left? Perhaps they were shy.

After getting a few yards closer to the leprechaun, the green fairy noticed him and flew over in a blur of wings and dust. She stopped right in front of his nose, forcing him to pause, and then proceeded to pet his face.

Which was really _not _weird at all.

Thomas' momentary surprise gave the other fairies time to fly over in a much calmer manner than their excited counterpart. Instead of sitting on the bridge of his nose and feeling his eyebrows, (and making Thomas feel so awkward he wished he could flick the green pixie off) the red and yellow fairy stayed a respectful distance away to examine him. They seemed kind enough however, just curious. The red one was the biggest, and perhaps the oldest, but she and her sisters dressed alike. The Otherworldly glow that hung about them, shown through the darkness and mist, making them appear almost transparent in a nice, homey, but definitely not home sort of way. They seemed completely unaware of this curiosity though, and Thomas found himself getting tired of it too; the yellow, red, and green lights fluttering around him in complete darkness were making him dizzy. Speaking of which, he looked past them for the leprechaun and the light. He found them several yards away, getting farther and farther each second. Thomas took a careful step after him. The flying fae adjusted, but the green one – instead of flying away like he knew was entirely possible – slouched down and straddled his nose. Looking cross-eyed down at her in confusion, (he'd seen her fly – why wasn't she flying?), Thomas took another step.

"Ehh!" The silvery, bell-like voice came from his nose, which was halfway awkward and made Thomas stare at his nose even harder. "Stop walking, you ninny!"

Thomas stopped mid-step and looked at the other fae for help. The leprechaun was already too far ahead to hear them if he wasn't trying not to and his light was quickly fading into the distance.

The two of them fluttered closer to peer at her. "Séad…" They said together in a long sigh. It was the same tone as 'Séad's', though perhaps a little higher and more musical, as if both fairies were constantly singing.*

The green fairy huffed a very soft huff and fluttered over to them, arms cross in a pout. "Ye're never any fun."

"An' ye're quite reckless, like always," the red pixie supplied.

Yellow looked away from the two. "And must we _continue_ tellin' you not to take such abrasive measures?"

"M' actions were not 'brasive!" Séad stomped her foot on air, lifting a small cloud of green dust. "Someday 'm going to be _abrasive_ and ye'll think every other 'abrasive' thing was kitsune play!"*

As Thomas watched from the corner of his eyes, she darted forward to alight on his right shoulder, brushed off her dress very daintily and sat down without another word. When he looked behind for the others, they had disappeared like the former blue fairy. He decided to keep walking with the green fairy apparently coming along for a ride. The leprechaun's light grew as they got closer and Thomas felt the surroundings become a bit warmer. He wanted to ask questions, but the little fairy still seemed in a hot flurry. When they were about ten yards from the little man, he couldn't hold it any longer. "Who… who are you?" He asked.

"A fairy," Séad snapped. "And 'm real."

They must've heard his question to the leprechaun then. Thomas glanced around through the dark, wondering if the fae could possibly switch off their glow, and if that was the case, how many millions of fairies were watching him that instant. He shuddered and dismissed the creepy thought. "But what does Séad mean? Does it mean anything? Who were the others?" He took a breath. "Where am I? Who is the man up there and where is he taking us? Why are we going there?"

The little pixie sighed and he felt her petite weight shift on his shoulder. "T'ey were my sist'rs. Quite shy 'alf the time. 'm surprised t'ey even came. And m' name's a stone in yer world. 's a green one, I think." She stood up then, one hand on a lock of hair to keep her balance. "Not emerald… jade? Jade."

"I like it." Thomas turned toward his shoulder to smile and found he had a clearer view of her the closer she got. She had a slender dress on that came halfway up her thighs with tiny, short sleeves. Her skin and up-done blond hair didn't appear to be green, but they radiated it enough he couldn't tell much difference between such and her wings, which were a jade-green gossamer form of accessories and loveliness.

She looked back toward him and caught him staring at her. The green glow instantly flushed a reddish hue. "No wonder we never bring 'umans here often. They're always rude!"

So Thomas looked away again. "Where am I?"

"… and stupid." Séad sniffed and crossed her arms again.

He'd offended her, Thomas realized after a minute of her silence. (The leprechaun in front was still ignoring them or couldn't hear, though he kept walking.) He didn't know what to say, however, so he kept walking, hoping that after a while her temper would cool off and he'd know some more of this world – since it seemed like he was in a different one now that included pixies and leprechauns.

After what seemed a year, Séad puffed out a soft breath. "W're going somewhere very wond'rful."

"Can I see it?"

"Of course, git." She settled down on his shoulder again, one hand reaching up to grip his hair.

"It's so dark here though. Does it get lighter when we get closer?"

The pixie blinked. "Dark? Is i' dark?" She shook her head before Thomas could reply. "Dark fer you, then. Most children never see dark."

"What's different? Should it not be?"

Thomas glanced at her just as a sly smile slid over her face. She tugged on the lock of hair again while leaning on tiptoe to speak into his ear. "T'e Darklands can be anything ye 'magine them to be."

"Then-" Thomas bit his lip. "Then why are they dark?"

Séad tossed her little arms up in the air. "'umans! Ye're not _'magining_ anything!"

That made sense, now he thought of it, and he should've known that sooner. Thomas glanced around at the billowing dark and the small light in front of them from the leprechaun. Closing his eyes, he thought of the favorite treat he'd had once; mounds and mounds of it with little sprinkles falling from the sky to make bigger mounds. And then he opened them.

The air above them was the thick grey of storm clouds and around them was a white wonderland. The pixie on his shoulder blinked. "What 's this?"

"_Sugar!_" Thomas blurted out and dove for the nearest white pile. It _was_ sugar. The grainy white specks coated his face and it was completely tangible when he scooped up a load in his hands. He could only imagine what Olivia would be telling him now; not to eat it, or not to eat too much. Katherine would be staring at the phenomenon and wondering how it could be taking place, but his still-exhausted mind was too tired to comprehend anything than the unlimited sweetness in front of him. Scooping up another handful, Thomas shoved it in his mouth.

And promptly spat it back out. Scrambling out of the mess, Thomas stared at the enormous trick. "It isn't sugar!"

Séad giggled a lovely bell-like giggle from where she was fluttering above him. "'course it doesn't taste. It's the Darkland. Ye've got to imagine t'e taste fer it to be right."

"But if I'm imagining the taste…" Thomas frowned in stressful thought. "It can't be right anyway. I'm just fooling myself into thinking it's the right thing. This isn't a world of sugar at all; it's still the Darkland." He blinked, and suddenly the sky began to grow darker; the sugar under his feet turned into puddles of brownish sludge before it all disappeared and turned black again. The leprechaun with the light was farther away than he'd been, apparently hidden by the mounds. Thomas huffed once at the vanished mirage and started after him.

Séad followed, a tiny pout on her face again. "But it was wha' ye wanted, wasn't it?"

"But it wasn't _real_." Thomas kicked vaguely at the darkness. "I only want it if it's going to be _real_."

She sighed and settled down on his shoulder again. After a time, Séad nudged him. "We wanted to know."

"What?"

"We wanted to _know_." She rolled her eyes, but the action didn't hold any anger; apologies though, almost. "We wanted to know why 'e cares fer ye."

Thomas raised an eyebrow and found his curiosity peaked enough to glance at her. "Who? Seamus?"

"'f course Seamus." Séad puffed out a breath. "We're the fae of Ireland. We're 'is. And 'e cares about ye – ver' much. An' we wanted to know why. So Abbán brought you here."*

"Ah." And that made sense, really. But there it was again; they were 'his'. What was Seamus' anyway? The whole world? Did captaining a ship give you all that right? Who was _he_?

"_-mas!_"

Thomas whirled around to peer into the dark the way they'd come, before glancing back at Séad. "Did you hear something?"

"No," but her face was oddly worried with a pout that seemed sadder than her earlier ones. "Come with me, Thomas. Please? I'm truly sorry about the Darkland, but 's wonderful and ye can see the whole of your world if ye want to, without any of the dangers. You haven't even seen my 'ome yet. Look. We're getting closer."

Thomas pursed his lips and glanced around. Now he looked, the dark was getting lighter. The leprechaun's light had faded into a bleary grey mist, and beyond that appeared something brighter; something out of a fairytale. But this was a land of magic and fay, apparently, so he shouldn't have expected any less. There were the dancing glow of fairies just before the light-grey mist became dark-grey; hundreds of them in every imaginable color, shape, and size. Some seemed as big as his head while others couldn't possibly be as larger than his pinky finger.

"_Thomas!_"

"Do come." Séad fluttered out in front and Thomas couldn't remember when he'd seen anything so pretty as the thousands of different colors – some of them he hadn't known existed. Not even as pretty as Cahill island after a spring storm. "You must. I insist. There isn't any pain 'ere 'n ye can never die. We all love children. I'll teach you magic if you like."

"I- I heard something."

But when he started to glance behind him, Séad tugged fiercely at his hair to keep his attention. "Ye've got to come with us. It's prettier here. It's more fun 'ere; nothing's ever fun in that world – ye can get hurt 'n die."

The leprechaun had turned around at the border of light-grey and shadow too and the little cock of his head seemed to question him. Thomas could almost hear his voice in his head – or was he really speaking? _"Come 'long, laddie. 'll be gre' fun."_

"But- But what about sailing? I want to go sailing."

"Thomas!"

And there was definitely someone behind him in the dark with an assuredly familiar voice.

She flew backwards a few steps, large, green eyes pleading with him for a few paces more. "Ye can sail 'ere."

Something _seemed_ wrong. And Thomas hung back, watching the fluttering pixies. They were all waiting for what seemed to be a decisive moment; and now he was closer, the city seemed lovely, much more lovely than at a distance. There were rolling fields of grass with every kind of imaginable flower growing and far in the distance, cottages of the wee size for wee folk. Even farther, he could imagine a sea for sailing, always under a blue sky; awful weather would never prevent a departure.

"Thomas!"

Seamus?

The question started bouncing around in his head again: Who _was_ Seamus? And more importantly, what was his crew going to do with him? They'd wanted to toss him overboard in a rowboat in the middle of a storm just for a laugh if he managed to live. Here, they wanted him. No more Luke, no more Jane – who was a (fucking) fairy anyway – no more bossy Katherine, stern Olivia, or solemn Gideon. And for some reason, it didn't hurt. No pain, hadn't Séad said? He wouldn't even miss them, and knowing their bloody attitude, they wouldn't miss him either. One less mouth to feet at any rate. Thomas took a step forward.

Séad instantly smiled, eyes lighting up in such a hopeful look he had to take another step.

"THOMAS!"

Thomas yelped as arms encased him and suddenly he couldn't breathe. "Wai- let- let go of-"

"Let 'im go!"

There was a throaty growl from the throat connected to the arms crushing him close as Séad tugged furiously at his hair. It had words connected to it, but Thomas' brain couldn't work it out. Possibly frank denial.

"Please let 'im go! 'e was going to be m' friend! We are fr'ends! Please. 'e knows my name; please, 'e wants to come!"*

"T' die 'n _Avalon_?!" The voice snarled.

Thomas felt the world start to swim like his mind was being torn two places at once; it was so hard to breathe, but even if he had the air, he wasn't sure if he'd be able to stand. "Sea- seamus-" There was merciful release and sweet, sweet oxygen again, but for some reason, he continued clinging to Seamus and the dizziness didn't stop.

"Yer safe," the man murmured after a moment. "'S alright. I'll take ye 'ome."

"But you _can't_ take 'im home!" Thomas felt the furious tugging on his scalp again. "_We_ want him! _I_ want 'im!"

"Ye can't go draggin' ever' child 'nto yer island." Seamus' gruff voice snapped. Then he turned downward a bit; Thomas could feel the words directed at him. "Ye step inside t'eir l'nd, ye die 'n ye can't go back. Mag'c can on'y do so much."

"Thomas." And there was suddenly a hand brushing across his cheek; soft and warm, though rather callused. Leisel. Leisel had come; he barely knew her and she'd come to this scary place where she didn't know anything either. Suddenly Thomas felt like jumping into her arms and sobbing – which was not a manly thing to do at all – but his head hurt and all the world suddenly felt upside down and topsy-turvy and he was so tired of everything and Arthur and Seamus – (fuck it all he didn't care who Seamus was, he never should've doubted him) – appearing in a world of magic and how he'd gotten here in the first place; it didn't matter in the least. Thomas decided to bury his head in Seamus' tunic and cling as tight as possible.

After a minute when the (very manly, thank you) urge to bawl passed, he glanced up. The leprechaun was gone, along with most of the fairies. The red one was there, whom he'd seen before, along with the sister-Yellow fay in front of the city. And Séad was fluttering in front of the three of them, watery eyes pleading with him. "Ye- ye won't stay?" she finally managed; her voice was even higher than usual with the pleading tone of little bells tied in.

Thomas managed to shake his head, even though it hurt something wicked.

"Ehh," she murmured. Pursing her lips, she watched them, then suddenly fluttered over and landed on his shoulder.

Thomas felt Seamus shift in surprise. "Yer 'ome is 'ere, wee one."

"I'm not a 'wee one'," Séad snapped and crossed her arms, sounding like her old self. "I like 'im. And we're friends. So I'm coming too."

"Are you sure?" Leisel murmured. "It can be dangerous, for certain."

"'course." Thomas felt Séad give a vicious, but quite light kick to something – probably Seamus. "Well? 're we goin' back to yer gory world or not?"

Seamus laughed low and his grip on Thomas tightened. "You 'an 'elp too, I know."

Thomas shut his eyes as his headache's power grew. And then all form seemed to blur into something with space, but not with solids in a sense of déjà vu, and exhaustion overcame him, and finally _finally_ Thomas fell asleep.

-=-(*)-=-

Screaming.

Thomas felt a frown drag over his features and he unconsciously curled tighter in the blankets. Whoever it was, they needed to shut up. There was licorice in his dream, and sweetmeats and something about fae taking the real Jane away and replacing her with a pixie – by which he knew she was bound to grow up and leave happily out of his life forever. Except someone was screaming at the top of their lungs about hands. Hands. Like hands couldn't wait. Thomas moaned exasperatedly into his pillow, trying to listen to the voice and ignore it at the same time. Hands on the deck? Were mutant hands crawling out of the sea, growing legs, and invading the boat? Because that was bloody awesome and he'd have to see that, even if it meant recognizing the dizzy way he felt at the moment.

And then there was the sound of a head against wood and a string of colorful curses. Seamus.

Cracking open an eye, Thomas watched a shirtless-Seamus struggle into a tunic, a drastic change from the fancy green coat and alike he'd been wearing the day before. Whirling around once on his heel, the man caught sight of him propped in bed. He looked a bit bleary-eyed to be honest and his red hair definitely hadn't been combed. "You stay 'ere," the man snapped.

"But- but what about the hands? Won't you need my help?"

Seamus shot him an odd look and started towards the door. "No."

And suddenly Thomas' mind _heard_ what the man was screaming. He fumbled with the sheets and dropped to the floor. "'E's saying all 'ands on deck. I'm a hand too, aren't I?"

"You stay safe." Seamus shot him another look and he was gone. Off in the distance, Thomas heard a sound like thunder. Thunder…. He frowned, glancing at the window. Had the sky been clear last night? No, it hadn't.

Wait, the sky _was_ clear now. This was odd. It had been storming when he'd gone to sleep. Thomas slid blearily out of bed, around the table, and to the window to smash his face against the panes of glass and look up. Yes, it was quite clear; a few clouds here and there that could billow into something more, but as of now, not much. Lovely weather then. So what was the problem?

Another clap of thunder sounded off in the distance, making Thomas frown with worry when the ship rocked slightly a few moments after it went off. The wake hadn't been too bad, but something had hit the water with enough force- Two tiny hands dug themselves in Thomas' forelocks and flipped over, leaving the small person in question hanging at eye level. "Good mornin'," Séad chittered. "Slept enough?"

Thomas snorted, making her giggle as her makeshift swing drifted back and forth on the breeze. "No."

"Aww," Séad let go and dropped a few inches before her wings caught her. "Yer no fun. Eh, 'n don't you notice anything different? Hm?" She whirled lightly around, a delighted, antsy grin on her face.

Now she mentioned it… Thomas peered closer. The clothes she'd had on the night before, had changed into clothes quite a bit like Leisel's. She had knee-high boots on – magic, Thomas figured, dismissing any other ideas, because even Seamus with all his strings to pull couldn't make boots that small – and her long blond hair pulled into a tussy bun-like thing, since Thomas couldn't describe it any other way. What was he supposed to say to it though? "Mm. I do," he finally shrugged.

"Good." A tri-cornered hat with a fluffy green feather suddenly appeared in Séad's hand and she settled it firmly on her head as another clap of thunder shook the ship. It was getting closer. She fluttered over to the window while Thomas stood there, already aware there was nothing on that side of the ship. "W'at's that?"

"I don't know, but Seamus left 'n an awful hurry."

Séad gave a grin that he was starting to link with action, risk, and excitement. "Then le's go find out, shall we?"

**-=-(*)-=-**

*** Both Fae and Fay are acceptable uses for the plural of 'fairy', although, as Wikipedia points out, fae is termed as Middle-to-Old-English (stemming from 'faierie' or 'feirie' and taken from Old French's 'faie' [Modern English: fay].) and generally abandoned for the more modern term of Fairies. However, Fay reminds me too much of Morgan le Fay, and looks odd, so in this story, I prefer the use of Fae. Fay is also not to be confused with fey. (-the Germanic term of 'fated to die'.) I had a terrible time remembering whether fay or fey was proper while sorting all these words out. For more information on the etymology of 'Fairy' visit Wiki here: en. wiki pedia wiki /Fairy**

*** "The pixies got curious." - I use Pixie and Fairy interchangeably in the story, though they can be termed as different creatures and some tales even go as far to say there was a war between the pixies and fairies in Buckland St. Mary, Somerset: the pixies won and still frequent the area while the fairies had to leave. (I wanted to use this tidbit, but it was difficult since I would've had to change a ton of ****Séad's labeling, change Scottish folklore, and discuss Arthur's vital regions and I **_**really**_** didn't want all that drama.)**** The title pixie is generally used in Cornwall and Devon, England to describe childlike, mischievious creatures with benign intentions. Sometimes they have human stature, sometimes not, and they love bits of finery and horses. Quite a bit of the fairy and pixie mythology seems to have been interchanged however, so most is left to the imagination. **

*** ****'Séad'****, pronounced 'Shayd'; meaning Jade in Gaelic, as in the stone.**

*** "... kitsune play." - Kitsune is the Japanese word for fox, which highlights the kitsune myth really. Kitsunes are generally portrayed as foxes with magical abilities and multiple tails that increase with their age and wisdom. Their foremost attribute is the power to change into human form. While they're sometimes said to be tricksters like foxes often are in Western folklore, more often the Japanese kitsune is a faithful guardian, friend, lover, or wife. Because of their power, they are sometimes lifted to diety standards and regarded with high offerings.**

*** 'Abbán', pronounced 'A-bahn'; meaning Little Abbot in Gaelic.**

*** "He knows my name." - In lore, if you know a fairy's name, you could summon it to you have have it do your bidding, though Thomas isn't aware of this. In headcanon, I imagine all the Briton brothers knowing their general mythical creatures' names, but they don't use them unless they must, which the fae are grateful for.**

**The shortest chapter~! Hurray!**


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